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

Is-n't it bliss?  Don't you ap-prove?
One who keeps tear-ing a-round,
one who can't move....
Where are the clowns?
Send in the clowns.

Just when I'd stopped op-en-ing doors, 
Fin-al-ly know-ing the one that I want-ed was yours,
Mak-ing my en-trance a-gain with my u-su-al 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.
Sor - ry, my dear.
But where are the clowns?
Quick, send in the clowns.
Don't both-er, they're here.

Is-n't it rich? Is-n't it queer,
Los-ing my tim-ing this late
in my ca -reer?
And where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns.
Well, may-be next year...
   

Circa 1958
Music and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim