The joker skipped across the circus,
Making the crowds laugh with delight.
But little Mary in the front,
Sat as silent as the depth of the night.
She saw the joker jest around,
With that smile of paint plastered on his face.
But the girl couldn’t help but wonder why,
It all looked so fake.
The joker hopped about amusing the masses,
His hands in the air as he twirled with grace,
However those eyes gave his secret away.
They looked like a haunted place.
So little Mary followed the joker,
Into what they call a greenroom.
Pity and Terror taking over her senses,
As she saw him sink to his knees, cast in a gloom.
Taking a cloth, the joker scrubbed off the cosmetics,
Revealing the truth that lay underneath.
The girl saw, a man with wrinkled papery skin,
His face in bitter despair that he had sheath.
The mascara that gave his sockets vitality,
Was replaced by sunken bags under his eyes.\
And The frills that graced his shoulders,
Concealed a dejected slouch that he had disguised.
Mary didn’t ever visit the circus again,
For under those hooting crowds,
Was its pungent reality scabbed in silent plea,
Were they really so blind to these cruel shrouds?
Or chose to see only what they wanted to see?