The Carousel by Mandarin Wilcox

Around, around, and again I’m dancing;
I am presented with no other job.
My paint is peeling and my wood is cracking.
With increasing age my gears begin to throb.

A man wears a striped jacket with a top hat.
He raises a cane to attract a crowd.
He takes their money and they step to the mat,
then rush upon my platform reckless and loud.

I remain constant throughout the years,
lights blurring with every revolution.
While everything around me changes,
I keep turning, with no restitution.

The seasons change and I spin with perfection.
But I wish I could turn another direction.