Clown

I hate your kanga-foot, your squeaky shoe,
Your hula-hoop, your pregnant pantaloons,
Your bowler hat, your tufty owl hairdo,
Your flippered walk, your jessed daemon-balloon.

Blood-guzzling binges leave your mouth stained red;
A plague festers behind your cursed, crossed eyes.
Your booming cackle cracks your crazy head.
You butcher butterflies for your bow-ties.

Your greasepaint turns pink skin to porcelain;
You reel around the ring, a drunken ghost
Chasing the helter-skelter circus din.
You are the thing I hate and fear the most.

Your bald wig draws a line across your brow:
Lobotomised, you are an egg, spoon-tapped.
You screech, and scratch your head, and wonder how
To flee the burning house in which you're trapped.

I am not entertained. It sorrows me
To hear the laughter of sadistic hordes
At fellow humans stripped of dignity.
They see your wretchedness and they applaud.

The world is an arena, and we all
Are fools and bullies both, in turns.
We crush others to stop us feeling small;
We cannot balance pride, we never learn.

The clown serves to show us the importance
Of self-respect and how, if we deride,
We hurt others to bolster confidence.
So, see his hanging head. Be satisfied.

1 July 2002