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(it Started As A) Sonnet#3 (but Mutated Horribly)

Testing the fake Daff on his lapel with a squeaky leak,
And tapping the mud off his gigantic puppy-fur shoes,
He stretched the hair-net taut over his widow’s peak
And, squinting in the mirror, had only his face left to do.
Umbongo Scognamelio proffered a much lovey-kissed cheek
Bone at the mirror.  To be admired.
Pouting.
Smeared the white greasepaint into the cry-corners of his melancholic eyes.
Ghosting himself. 
Wishing himself into an oblivion of sighs.
Doubting.
The stereotypical psycho or a good-natured fellow?
Clinging vaseline smells vile.
A coppery wig makes more merry;
Slapstick thick-bubbly dribbles of crimson
Paint the fat bloody hanging sausage of a smile.
Popped the red nose on, topping himself
With a cherry.
He thought of children, and frowned,
Reflecting the bladder-shriveling scowl of the clown.
CrookedMan CrookedMan 46-50 1 Response Apr 13, 2012

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Oh, that is awesomely gruesome! Love it!