The final curtain has drawn while the guts spill on the floor.
An audience ready to digest what no one ever embraced.
The fright flourishes in the stage right, the fear knocks at the door.
Another god was born when the terraces erected and braced.
The light beams on the face of the clown as he dances,
coward and ludicrous, his pantomime is lost, still-born, jesting.
The sound echoes his steps, the cheers sustain his ease,
no balance, no coordination in his gestures, no organizing.
Yet the audience applause the loon at the end of his show,
a foolish performance no rehearsal could have made better
especially for a brainless child, an outrageous idiot.
The absolution came at a time he needed it the most, a flow
of laughters could not have made him feel better either,
he did not have to use his brain as his play contained no plot.