The Clown

He chose a face that only his mad mother would love. He painted a tragedy upon a crooked grin. His mask was designed to mug any real mirth. His career-path a honking mockery. A blundering funster who picked-up a badgering prod, that made it caper, and ha-de-ha inside distorting mirrors. When audiences thinned, he became the dark intermission, a curtain drawn over a cloaked smirk. Now we see him swaying on street corners, occasionally cackling, much crazier now then his sorrowing mom.