The Clown by Tom Mac Intyre
Beware the clown, that portable
hatched grimace testament
to appetites unappeasable,
one taste worse than another,
you, you're worst of the lot,
get - Basta! - out of his sight.
But give him - Merci, merci -
the music, make-up, lights,
sweat, sawdust, razamatazz,
and, font of voluptary grace,
he ravishes you, you and yours,
with tender fingers lifts the veil,
most tenderly allows it fall.
You go home shriven, forsaken.
Where on earth have you been?
You've been to bed with the clown,
the huckster, hoaxer, shaman.
Don't ask him how it's done.
Himself again, he can't tell.
The veil, just. Lifted. Let fall.
