. . . though just for the record, my malevolence against clowns will never be acted upon with anything more deadly than a squirting boutonniere . . .

Barrel of Laughs

Pity it comes to this, my friend;

I’d hoped to sidestep such an end

To our relationship–could not

Persuade you to eschew your plot.

Your gay facade of childlike cheer

Could not disguise your purpose here

Of traumatizing all the guests–

In fact, my prosecution rests

On your determined bright demeanor

Of insouciance in between or

Right over the top of griefs;

In fact, it is my firm belief

You’d gladly goad into the grave

Precisely those you sham to save

From daily life’s grotesqueries.

It’s cruel monstrosities like these

Harsh japes and jests and thoughtless jollies,

Nasty hijinks, fatal follies

Foisted on our sad world by

An ur-aggressive perky guy

With terrifying giant shoes,

Yarn wig and honking horn, and whose

Dire predilection for a prank

Makes most of us just want to yank

Off his bow-tie and bulbous nose

To the degree you might suppose

We’d some psychosis, but the fact

Is, though our souls remain intact,

They are endangered by his farce

Whom we’d be kicking in the arse

If we were not still too refined

To entertain that state of mind.

So rather, I must batten down

Your overweening ways, you clown,

And stare to naught your laughing fun

Right down the barrel of my gun.

It's only a squirt-gun, but you're in my sights, you bozo!