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 Big Top

There is a general air of sadness
As they take the Big Top down.
That sledge wielding rowdie,
Last night's White Faced Clown.
Immaculate in sequinned suit
Such a fine figure to be seen,
Hardly recognisable now dressed
In his tee shirt and old baggy jeans.
There's a sort of slowness today
A lethargy in all those working
Which in other recent happier times
Would have been classed as shirking.
But not today
No real panic
Gone the need,
Somewhat manic,
To be on the road
To the next show.
No, no rush now
Nowhere to go.
White Faced Clown can't compete
Against a computer game
Or a plasma screen TV,
And a circus is too tame
For a modern world,
Or at least the bank say,
So, for the very last time
They pack the Big Top away
And the lorries will drive .off
With their load
To put it in store
Somewhere off the road
And White Faced Clown
Much older than he seems
Will drift on through life
With all his dreams
There is a general air of sadness
As they take the Big Top down.
There's no next show to advertise
For the circus has at last closed down






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