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He dances away depression and sadness

and turns gray skies blue

He spends his days this way

and people passing toss him a coin or two

When night falls he crawls back into his box,

a homeless jester born under a tent, content,

his stohter and smiles

Safely asleep, he dreams about tomorrow's show,

hearing the voices in the crowd chanting,

The clown, the clown, give us the clown

As long as they want him, he'll never be alone

"Look," Willia"

"That's not polite, son," my father told him

"It's a beautiful poem," I told Leanna, and she thanked me

I l