FOR BILL
When Clowns die They quietly Pull up their stakes And fold up their tents To a symphony of crickets Under a million weary stars When all that is left of The night Are the echoes Of gaiety, The thunder claps of applause And perhaps the forever memory imprint Of the one, warm Wonderful daffy rubbery smiling face of the clown. With their work never done, Into the night those clowns will gallop On the backs of invisible Rocking horses With their gaily painted faces and pretend swords And bottomless optimism Leading the charge towards the unreachable stars Whose grown-up windmills inform the child That Imagination And make-believe Are nothing but a curse. An excuse For never growing up. From the moment that they are conceived in the twinkle of an eye The good clowns The kind jesters The ones with crowns Made of daffodils And finely powdered sugar Like our Bill d...