The clown, in the classical sense of the word
Has a laughing face.
He mirrors the madness that may have occurred
In the human race.
Well, I'm
A master of mime.
Look at me.
What do you see?
A prisoner of paint?
A saw-dusted saint?
A babe who was born to be me?
The clown, in the classical sense of the word
May be bold or shy.
He delights in deciding the world is absurd
As a custard pie.
Well, I'm
A master of mime.
Look around.
What have you found?
A champion of chintz?
A prat-falling prince?
A stilted boy high off the ground?
The clown, the sculptor shaping the clay,
Turning tears into toys made of papier mache.
But what if my touch becomes a touche.
And my smile morphs into a frown?
Will you still see in me, the clown?
The clown, in the classical sense of the word
Cannot ever cry.
Without his emotions defined and deferred,
He would surely die.
Yes, I'm
A master of mime.
Look at me.
What do you see?
Some devilish dunce with dependable wit?
A man doing stunts other men won't forget?
While others may laugh, I have to admit
It is freeing
In being
The clown.
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