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A Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality
How I hate it when they call me a clown,
Yet I can't help but make people laugh.
It comes unbidden, needing no invitation —
As though a trove of jokes is placed in my mouth.
Often I try to bridle my face and talk tough,
But when a flume of gloom drowns spirits deep down,
Then my sense of humour becomes their salvation —
A spring of joy that quenches sorrow’s drought.
Time has taught me that humour holds a balm ~
It lifts the weight boredom lays on minds.
It brightens paths in life's dark forlorn mines,
And lifts me too, when others' jokes make me smiles.
Humour sheds tears when no cry’s in mind,
It soothes loneliness with enduring calm.
A cashless payment offered sorrow as a fine,
A thrill that ricochets through veins for miles.
A chapter of me should wear the clown's toga proud,
Since joy and radiance my humour brings to faces,
A talent that needs no stress to express,
The reason my presence delights all and sundry.
Copyright ©
Maclawrence Famuyiwa
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