A poem (well, rhyming verse actually)
In a red brick
and grimy industrial town
(Just east of
Burnley and a little bit down)
Preparations
began for an annual event
That was
bigger than Christmas, more sacred than Lent.
The town awoke
from its slumber at a quarter to five,
And within a
mere thirty minutes the streets were alive
With people
setting up stalls and banners and flags,
As they ate up
their breakfasts from white paper bags.
At nine the
celebrations were starting to swing,
And two hours
later there was a faint rumbling.
A small child
heard it first, and in voice that was shrill,
Cried,
“They’re coming! They’re coming! They’re coming over the hill!”
The townsfolk
got ready and lined the streets in their droves,
All dressed in
their freshly washed Sunday best clothes.
Music in the
distance made them prick up their ears
And over the
horizon the circus appeared.
As it is
rolled into town with its lumbering trucks
The townsfolk
gazed on with wondrous looks.
For this was
their favourite time of the year
(Nothing much
else ever happened round here).
The trapeze
artists arrived, then the elephants and lions.
Next came the
strong man who juggled five Mayans.
Then came the
horses and tigers and eagles,
Followed by
the man with his ten smoking beagles.
Then came the
magician whose tricks all went wrong,
Followed by
the rhinos that broke into song.
The ringmaster
came next, cracking his whip through the town,
And finally,
at the rear, came the tumbling clowns.
The procession
rumbled through town until it came to a meadow
That was owned
by a farmer by the name of Tom Beddow.
He’d seen this
very circus on a day trip to Dover,
And they paid
a nominal fee for his meadow of clover.
The Big Top
went up and the performers rehearsed.
In a caravan
the ringmaster and farmer conversed.
“Everything’s
set, the forecast is sunny.”
“And the
punters are ready to part with their money.”
Now, in this
industrial town of red brick
Lived two
brothers whose surname was Hick.
They were
identical twins – one Peter, one Paul –
But apart from
their looks they shared nothing at all.
Peter was
stupid, moronic and thick.
He was a dunce
with less sense than an average brick.
He was
mentally challenged, a dimwit and slow,
His attention to
detail was almost zero.
At school he was
useless and was often regarded
As backward or
a nitwit or just simply retarded.
His teachers
despaired and contacted his mother.
Saying, “Why can’t
he be like his intelligent brother?”
Peter couldn’t
add up and he couldn’t subtract,
He couldn’t
read Shakespeare and nor could he act.
His
comprehension was atrocious, his grammar was worse,
He couldn’t
write sentences and he couldn’t write verse.
He couldn’t
understand physics or biology
Or chemistry
or maths or palaeontology.
When asked
something simple, he’d say without exception,
“Du-hur, I
don’t understand the question.”
As he grew
older his brain seemed to shrink
And he
couldn’t do anything that required him to think.
He eventually
found work in the town’s local zoo,
Mucking out
the cages of the rhino and gnu.
His brain was
so small he could never remember
Whether
Christmas fell in July or December.
But despite
his stupidity, frowning and slowness
There was one
thing he loved – and that was the circus.
He liked the
trapeze artists, the elephants and lions.
He liked the
strong man who juggled five Mayans.
He liked the
horses, the tigers and eagles,
He liked the
man with his ten smoking beagles.
He liked the
magician whose tricks all went wrong,
He liked the
rhinos that broke into song.
He liked the
ringmaster who cracked his whip through the town,
But he loved
most of all the tumbling clowns.
Although his
brother was moronic and thick,
Paul was the
complete polar opposite.
He was a
professor of mathematics, an historian and a boffin,
He could sing
in falsetto without even coughing.
He could talk
convincingly on all kinds of subjects,
On space
travel and diplomacy and flesh-eating insects.
He was a
qualified vet and did algebra for fun
And he could
name all the components that made up a gun.
He was an
expert in criminal and clinical psychology,
As well as
science and religion and Jungian philosophy.
As an artist
he was praised for his abstract creativity.
He could even
explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.
He was a
gastronome, a gourmet and a fabulous cook
(He’d even
made improvements on Delia’s book).
He could play
on his piano Gymnopodies by Satie,
But he was
known best of all for his quick wit and repartee.
His put downs
were legend, his wit sharp as a tack,
One lash of
his tongue would take people aback.
His words were
well-chosen, his sentences structured,
So fools and
their pride could be easily ruptured.
His tongue was
a weapon, his words ammunition,
No fool could
escape his expert derision.
Those wasting
their time watching soaps on their tellies
Were reduced
by his wit to quivering jellies.
Only one man
was spared from his withering wit –
He was the
biggest fool in town, a monumental twit.
He spared him
because he loved him (they shared the same mother) –
It was Peter,
his incredibly stupid twin brother.
Now, Peter was
in a state of excitement –
He knew what
the tickets he had for this night meant.
He was going
to the circus that travelled round towns!
He was going
to the Big Top – and that meant the clowns!
Peter was
wrapped in his scarf (the ends pinned to his back),
He had on his
jumper and his black plastic mac.
The night air
was chilly and it was starting to rain,
But none of
that mattered inside young Peter’s brain.
His thoughts
were on clowns – he was sure they’d be funny.
“That’s all
very well,” said Paul. “Now don’t lose your money.”
When Peter
left with his ticket in hand
He was the
happiest man in all of the land.
He would be
sat at the ringside (his favourite spot)
And he’d see
everything clearly, the whole jolly lot.
He sat through
the trapeze artists, the elephants and lions.
He sat through
the strong man who juggled five Mayans.
He sat through
the horses, the tigers and eagles,
He sat through
the man with his ten smoking beagles.
He sat through
the magician whose tricks all went wrong,
He sat through
the rhinos that broke into song.
He sat through
them all until the ringmaster came out.
“Please
welcome the clowns!” he announced with a shout.
The clowns
fell into the ring, rolling and tumbling –
All of them
laughing – except one, who was grumbling.
He was a mean
spirited clown by the name of John Hammett,
Who had a chip
on his shoulder the size of a planet.
Hammett was
not happy at being a joker,
And that’s why
his face was as long as a poker.
The
ringmaster’s job was what he really desired,
But his
qualifications fell short of what was required.
He’d gone to
the interview all tidy and neat,
But he
couldn’t disguise his oversized feet.
The interview
went badly, he didn’t do very well,
And the
pressure of it all caused his armpits to smell.
“I’m sorry to
inform you,” the interviewer trilled,
“The position
of ringmaster has already been filled.
Despite your
appearance, all tidy and neat,
I couldn’t
help noticing your red nose and feet.
Your shoes are
enormous and your feet are quite flat,
And I couldn’t
take you seriously in your conical hat.
Your red nose
was distracting, your face was too white,
For the
ringmaster’s job you are simply not right.
But I can
offer you the job of head honcho clown,
And if you
don’t accept that you can get out of town.
One final
thing – and this is just some advice –
Don’t shake my
hand with that electric shocker device.”
So here
Hammett was in this town of red brick,
When suddenly
his eye spied young Peter Hick
Who was eating
some popcorn and drinking a coke –
Just the right
chump for a mean-spirited joke.
He looks a bit
thick, thought the clown with a smile,
I’ll make a
fool out of him because I’m so infantile.
Peter was too
happy watching the other clowns tumbling
That he didn’t
notice Hammett with his moaning and grumbling.
Hammett
stepped over to the ringside and gave Peter a grin
Whose happy
face looked like his boat had come in.
He couldn’t
believe it, he was part of the show,
Unaware he
would soon be dealt a terrible blow.
“Are you the
front end of an ass?” asked Hammett the clown.
“I don’t think
I am,” replied Peter with a frown.
“Are you the
back end of an ass?” the clown continued to question.
“I don’t think
I am,” Peter said in confusion.
“Then you must
be no end of an ass,” the clown laughed in his face.
Peter’s bottom
lip quivered and he ran out of the place.
He ran out in
tears as the audience roared,
And Hammett
thought: With morons like him I’ll never get bored.
Peter may have
been stupid and easily pleased
But he was
also thin-skinned and easily teased.
He ran all the
way home and interrupted his twin
Who was
writing a biography of Ho Chi Min.
“I’ll sort
that clown out on the life of our mother.
I’ll get him
back,” Paul promised his brother.
“I’ll make him
pay – you wait and see –
For I am the
master of quick wit and repartee!”
The next night
Paul, with his ticket in hand,
Was the
angriest person in all of the land.
He sat at the
ringside (Peter’s favourite spot)
To see
everything clearly, the whole sorry lot.
He sat through
the trapeze artists, the elephants and lions.
He sat through
the strong man who juggled five Mayans.
He sat through
the horses, the tigers and eagles,
He sat through
the man with his ten smoking beagles.
He sat through
the magician whose tricks all went wrong,
He sat through
the rhinos that broke into song.
He sat through
them all until the ringmaster came out.
“Please
welcome the clowns!” he announced with a shout.
The clowns
fell into the ring, laughing and tumbling –
All except
Hammett, who was, of course, grumbling.
But then a
grin stretched across Hammett’s cruel face
When he saw
last night’s victim in exactly the same place.
He’s come back
for more, thought the clown, with a smile,
I’ll embarrass
him again, because I’m feeling hostile.
“Are you the
front end of an ass?” the clown Hammett asked confidently.
“No,” replied
Paul with absolute certainty.
“Are you the
back end of an ass?” the clown continued to ask.
“No,” replied
Paul, his face as blank as a mask.
“Then you must
be no end of an ass,” said the clown with big feet.
Paul didn’t
respond and remained in his seat.
The crowd
started to smile, then they started to snigger,
But they began
to go quiet when Paul suddenly seemed bigger.
He got out of
his seat looking angry and tall,
And a small
boy cried out, “It’s not Peter – it’s
Paul!”
A sudden
silence descended throughout the Big Top
And it dawned
on the clown that his act was flop.
The name of
Paul Hick was known throughout many towns
And he was mightily
feared in the society of clowns.
They carried
his picture in their extra-large pockets –
And his face
made their eyes bulge from their sockets.
Hammett should
have paid more attention, his come-uppance was nigh,
And he fell to
knees and started to cry.
He could see,
looking up, Paul’s face getting madder –
Then he lost all
control and emptied his bladder.
The silence
was deafening, the air sombre and grey,
As the
audience waited for what Paul had to say.
For Paul was
at the very top of the tree
When it came
to quick wit and repartee.
His
well-chosen words would be witty and cruel –
They would
make the clown look like an ignorant fool.
The sentence
was structured, Paul face was like thunder –
He was now ready
to punish the clown for his blunder.
The crowd
covered their ears (a sensible decision)
To muffle the
sound of Paul’s witty derision.
Paul looked
down at the clown and these wry words he blasted,
“Fuck off, you flat-footed, red-nosed
bastard!”
Hammett
clutched at his chest and cried out in anguish –
His heart
nearly burst upon hearing Paul’s language.
He fell to the
ground, twitching and weeping,
And from the
crotch of his trousers something awful
was seeping.
The crowd
roared their approval, they whistled and hooted,
At the clown
who been truly metaphorically booted.
At home, over
Horlicks, Paul said to his brother,
“I told you
I’d get him on the life of our mother.”
He related the
events of his glorious night,
Of his
sparkling wit and the clown’s well-deserved fright.
But what about
Hammett, that mean spirited clown?
He was sacked
by the ringmaster and then run out of town.
The society of
clowns struck his name off their list
And he spent
the rest of his life being totally pissed.
The trapeze
artists were history, like the elephants and lions.
No more the
strong man who juggled five Mayans.
The horses had
bolted with the tigers and eagles,
And gone was
the man with his ten smoking beagles.
Vanished was
the magician whose tricks all went wrong,
Extinct were
the rhinos that broke into song.
Hammett would
never again hear in any more towns
The ringmaster
calling, “Please welcome the clowns!”
In his sleep
he dreamed of his avoidable error –
And Paul’s
terrible words woke him twitching in terror.
They invaded
his mind like an extra-loud klaxon –
Haunting his nights
with their ripe Anglo-Saxon!
