Panning for gold
A man paints his face with sorrow,
From a kit of borrow.
A tear, a frown, a sad embrace,
Macabre he paints his face.
He molds it, but his eyes twinkle,
Like a Rip Van Winkle.
Draws the lines in black of borrow,
The face, wretched sorrow.
The mirrors image sets the mood.
A sad and somber brood.
He nods consent of glooms display
And stores the kit away.
He hides behind a closed curtain,.
Fearful and uncertain.
Stumbles forward in raucous view,
His awkward fall a rue.
The audience roars in laughter.
Howls fly to the rafters.
His eyes rain out sympathy clouds,
For mercy from the crowd.
Then antics follow in pursuit,
He honks and blows his snoot.
And then to every ones surprise
Squirts water out his eyes.
He turns away his gloomy head,
Lays down, curls up like dead
Waving hilarity away.
Their ludicrous display.
He is an alchemist of old,
Turning sad into gold.
Making from his own disaster,
Gold, of human laughter.