It's a job I wish didn't belong to me.
Yeah, this vocation really stinks
So much it stings me, I often yelp.
They shoot me off; cry out, "Help!" I fly alone.
And many a time when I land I break a bone.

Aim me; try to vault me through
That hoop; my mouth is a moue:
I can't smile at this throng that whoops, "Whoo hoo!"

I left home one night, nineteen, I tried to find
A job with the circus; I thought that was the right line
Of work for me,
But they turned me into a cannonball clone.
Each night as I take flight, I gripe, "This job's wrong!"

Aim me; try to put me through
That hoop; they can't hear me mew
Like a mild kitty who fears a mouse moue.

(calliope solo)

Smell now.
Aim me; though it's going through
My tights; I can't stay the poo.
Like a child. . .need diapers at twenty-two.

Wow, I come out just like a jet, but they're way
Off in their aim and so I do an aerial jeté.
You can't see me--
It's something to do with E = MC
Squared; and I am going fast, relatively;
This time I am clocked at Mach 3.

Aimed me; the gun crew was stewed,
Especially the priming dude;
He put vials in of stronger,
Stronger stuff. I'm screwed!

Maimed me, what he put into
The gun--nitro and I flew
Several miles, maybe longer.

Hunting crew!

Fallin' with pigeons and doves they shoot,
Callin' in pidgin, these lunkheads shoot.
"Whatya think I am? A coot?!" It's bleeped:
Squallin' like "*#%$@!" that's aired on the tube.