And now for a little nachtmusik, thanks to Mr. Sondheim*

Isn't it rich?
Are we a pair?
Me here at last on the ground,
You in mid-air.
Send in the clowns.

Isn't it bliss?
Don't you approve?
One who keeps tearing around,
One who can't move.
Where are the clowns?
Send in the clowns.

Just when I'd stopped
Opening doors,
Finally knowing
The one that I wanted was yours,
Making my entrance again
With my usual flair,
Sure of my lines,
No one is there.

Don't you love farce?
My fault, I fear.
I thought that you'd want what I want - 
Sorry, my dear.
But where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns.
Quick, send in the clowns.

 What a surprise.
Who could foresee
I'd come to feel about you 
What you'd felt about me?
Why only now when i see 
That you'd drifted away?
What a surprise.
What a cliché.

Isn't it rich?
Isn't it queer?
Losing my timing this late
In my career?
And where are the clowns?
Quick, send in the clowns.
Don't bother- they're here.
*Best version: Barbra Streisand.