Clowns walk, act, speak to muse us, He entertains while it burns inside. When he thinks, he cries. When he cries, the world around laughs. How does he clean the furnace? The echoes he hear are of the mocking birds. When do those birds sleep? Perhaps never, they add coal to the burner. What is the colour of the birds' blood? Though red, may not be thick. Do they live very long? Perhaps yes, that's why they manifold. When do they die? Do they ever? Perhaps yes, when there is no sweat, no tears on your skin, dear clowns. And then they are buried, not in a graveyard.