Chucko Is Dead

Chucko Is Dead It was on Columbus Day, 1962 When Chucko the Birthday Clown Sang in tones most glorious and free. “I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!” I was comfortably ensconced on the couch. A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever, Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross, Up the street at St. Mary’s, When Chucko the Birthday Clown Stared into the camera and saw me, Insignificant me, Just a freckled punk kid; Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus. And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent. But Chucko knew all about that. He knew the future and the past. He knew about Kennedy and Kent State He knew what was coming so imminently, He looked into that camera at Channel 7 And saw the children of the 50’s Coming home in body bags from The jungles of hell, From the other side of the world, From the bloody backside Where all things are vile and evil. He saw fear, and an ocean of tears. He saw ten thousand sunsets And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave. Even in 1962 When the country was still a damn good country, He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin. But he knew he could never tell of what was coming, Of the madness and corruption and the greed, “I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko the birthday clown!” Mother! Please! Take my hand. I’m afraid! Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.