Clown

I call you a clown.
You’re my clown. I know you’re not happy behind the make-up. Call it self-mortification or whatever. But it doesn’t matter if you’re happy behind the thick foundation and the thick red lipstick, still you make me smile, you make me smile behind my own self-mortification behind my own make-up.

I call you a clown, you’re a clown; you’re not a joker. Jokers’ jokes aren’t corny. Yours are. But your corny jokes aren’t short of funny anyway. You’re a clown, with those jokes at the back of your head, just waiting to be unraveled. You’re a clown, a natural one. Even sans the make up.

I call you a clown. You can see frolics in the normalcy of ordinary things.

I call you a clown, but you also have the seriousness camouflaged behind that make-up and funky clothes. You may have worn that colorful stuff and that thick pressed powder on your face, yet you’re not happy.

I call you a clown, my clown…

Thanks for making me smile. . .