There goes the clown in evening, oh so jolly
Here comes his acts, all so dramatic
Seated in rows, all his audience
Clapping and eliciting whistles, all his audience
His hands coated in mischief, red as can be
Here comes the circus director, with his clothes painted red
Crying as they laugh too hard, all his audience
Roaring with excitement, all his audience
There goes the clown in the early hours, sitting so glumly
Drained of his humour, all so sombre
Staring at empty rows, no audience to see
Bird squeaks and light breeze, all he can hear
His hands coated in grief, red as can be
As he stares at the silver glint, his clothes painted red
Crying as he looks at the seats, none of his audience
Withering with every breath, the clown falls
All his spectators, who roared with laughter
Hands red from clapping, and heart light with humour
Never do you ever wonder? Or never do you go to church?
Go behind the stage for his search?

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