Clowning Around

The sightings have been everywhere—

No matter where you go, he’s there.

Sometimes, you see his pouting face,

More often, sometimes every place,

You find you have no other choice:

Not only face, but whiny voice

That says “it’s heard” or “people say”

Assuring us he won’t betray

Our trust—that he knows better than

The common sense of common man

And waves his billions, yet still hides

His tax returns, his bona fides.

He’s there, you think, but then you spot

Another lie—and then he’s not

And all the while he will deny

The first, there is another lie

Which contradicts the first. It’s clear

We have an urban legend here—

Just like the menace with the hook,

He’s there—and we don’t want to look

And yet we do—there’s some delight

In when we tease ourselves with fright.

It’s seasonal, folklorists claim,

And soon will pass—the very same

That happened to the kidney thief

The backseat killer, and belief

In upstairs callers—who’ll remember

This little fright post-eight November?

Unless he wins—what will we do

If this one legend turns out true?

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