I know why the clown cries

 Powder, pancake face false white
Extra wide lip tracing ruby red
The red extends to a shiny nose
Blue triangles above the eyes
Green diamonds under eye deco
Bright, burnt orange wispy hair
Ex-large flipper, flapping shoes
Water squirting, joke lapel daisy
A nice new posh blue bowler hat
Bright yellow stretching braces
Ex-ex-large flower print trousers
Fluorescent lime green stockings
A brass honking horn on you belt
A pink whistle hangs round your neck
Beside you a bucket of feathers
On the floor two custard cream pies
A head full of Xmas cracker jokes
Skilled at funny falls and walks
In front a yellow falling apart car
A well over practiced comedy routine
All these things to make folks laugh
All these things to make kids smile
Yet you stand there sadly frowning
You sit on the floor and begin to cry
So strange, a deeply sad mirth maker
I can’t but help to ask you why
Why it is that funny clowns cry
He takes me into his bungalow
“We are having a family get together”
“Would you like to join with us?”
Saying yes we walk up the hallway
“They’re in the dinning room waiting for you”
He’s kitchen bound, I enter the dining room
A Large table seating eight quiet souls
They are all wearing bags on their heads
Sporting clown face type drawings
The bags appear to be stapled on
They are all completely naked
They’re all wearing cheap party hats
All hands have been nailed to the table
All ankles tied tightly with piano wire
Their chests strapped to the chairs
All feet nailed to the wooden floor
An enamel bucket under each chair
Each chair adjusted to be commodes
The buckets are full, the smell unbearable
They all appear to be, very much, dead
Then one weakly whispers “Help me.”
“Vie brought you some fresh lemonade”
He says as quietly he enters the room
In fright I almost jump out of my skin
It’s a time for real hard self control
I take his warm glass of fizzy piss
He toasts to family, we drink it in
I feel strange as I fall over then,
The lights seem to slowly fade out
Faintly, I can hear Jack-in-the-box music
I awake with a cloth bag on my head
There’s a seething pain in both hands
I cannot move either, try as I might
I know I am strapped to a chair tightly
It is difficult to breath and move
I can feel the wire cutting into my ankles
And the blood dribbling down my feet
A brass horn honks loudly in my ear
The motionless jump is the purest agony
He warmly welcomes me to his family
“Will you be my brother, brother?”
Without any movement I recoil
“Fuck You!” I shout, “Fuck you!”
“Oh no” he says, “It’s fuck you”
Lifting the bag he rams a tube
Violently down my throat. I gag.
He almost drowns me with liquid
A strange and chemical tasting liquid
There’s a whirring in my head
I know I am about to pass out
In the background I can hear
him sobbing like a scolded child
I almost feel sorry for him
I know now why the clown cries
He has no love or family
His clownship just a mask
Masking his broken heart
Masking his broken mind