From 2011 The title is MURPHY or it could be The Clown The last knife thunks into the board Between her shoulder and her jaw She steps away to loud applause Knives trace her outline on the wood She quickly moves beneath the crowd They test the blindfold, try it on They turn it over, check for holes She asks someone to bring it down She takes his arm and leads him out Into the middle of the ring To where the knife-thrower allows The volunteer to blindfold him She stands again ten yards away Within the pattern of the knives Parting her legs deliberately To leave a gap between her thighs The knife-thrower is dressed in black The leather mask around his eyes Tossing from hand to hand an axe The metal glinting under lights A single drum begins to roll A sudden blur, a cobra strike A spinning lightning bolt of steel Slams into wood between soft thighs The crowd erupts in wild applause He pulls the mask off, throws it down He holds his hand out to the girl And hand in hand they take a bow They start to exit arm in arm But do they leave? No, they cannot For now a frantic little clown Jumps up and down in front of them Gesticulating with a boot It’s broken, see? The sole hangs loose He’s tired of walking like a duck It makes him fall, it trips him up He flaps the boot around: quack, quack It begs – no -- it demands the chop Falling over, spilling paint Custard pies mashed in his face Eggs are never safe with him Life isn’t easy for a clown Now work is over for the day He wipes the grease paint off his face And stores his working kit away Nose in the nose drawer, wig in place The night is indigo and warm The big-top empty, quiet and dark The chimps and tigers in their stalls The side-amusement stands all locked The honest mirror now reveals The face behind the silly mask A stubble chin, dark, clever eyes A firm, uncompromising mouth He looks alright when sitting down Bit of a gut, strong hands and arms A little overweight perhaps But not too bad for sixty-one A person’s legs are half his height But he’s proportioned differently The problem is that when he stands His feet are where his knees should be His mobile home is custom built To suit somebody of his size The music system cost a lot In fact, he’s rather proud of it He rubs his jaw, decides to shave It’s Friday night, it’s half-past-ten A dwarf, no longer middle-aged He spins The Dark Side of the Moon Within the darkness of the void A thudding heartbeat gathers force A haunting scream of madness born Into the madness of the world He takes a drive into the town To him, by now, they’re all alike He finds a bar that looks ok He parks the van and goes inside They’re curious, it’s natural The lowered heads, the sudden quiet Nobody ever stares at him It’s only children who do that He’s not embarrassed but they are And if they're tense, he can’t relax He climbs a stool, pays for a beer Then tells the guy behind the bar: “You got a dwarf joke I ain’t heard You get two tickets to the show But if I get the punchline first You buy my beer? I never lose.” They laugh, the tension disappears His short legs hang, the barstool high He sits there chatting, drinking beer Like any other normal guy A seated handshake now and then It doesn’t matter who you are “Robert Murphy,” just the name All men are equal in a bar “One for the road, Rob?” “Nah,” he says: “I got one drink-and-drive arrest.” He pockets cigarettes and keys Then stands, bar level with his head The next part is no easier now Than it was forty years ago He slowly lights a cigarette Then makes the long walk to the door The circus is his place, his home He has his problems, that’s no lie But he’s a skilled comedian Well paid for doing work he likes The animals make quiet sounds The elephants clink on their chains He locks the gate and parks his van Home smells of canvas, dung, and hay The fridge spills light onto the floor He pops a beer, lets the door close He takes the bottle to the bed And presses ‘play’, the volume low Within the caravan in darkness Dave Gilmour’s quiet guitar chords Replace the loud, abrasive voices Din and babble of the bar Overdrafts and operations ‘The lunatic is on the grass’ Death, divorce and separations Repayment bonds on houses, cars ‘Hanging on in desperation’ Lyrics hanging on the night Voices raised in competition Rising taxes, rising crime ‘And if the dam breaks open’ Endless human misery Voices, faces, words and places Ever changing, all the same The fool may have a greater wisdom Than the king, for he is free My father’s house has many mansions Lost lovers lust for unity It’s: “Ask Rob -- Rob will know the answer” “Talk to Rob -- ask Rob, he’ll know” Rob doesn’t always, but he listens And his door is never closed He is a true professional Rewarded well financially His job secure, his age protected The circus is his family A little drunk, nothing unusual Still half awake, but half asleep He mutters words into the darkness A clown’s prayer, and this is it: “Oh God, You made me like I am And me the lucky one for that” (2011 RJM Corbet) for @wil ?
Quite interesting...but now I wanna know the back story..... I thought I were the only clown around here with sideshow friends!
However @wil informs me it's not like that in reality: clowns sleep three-up on bunks, and earn about enough to get by -- unless they can break through into the movies
I have a number of Ringling Graduate friends from back when clown college was a thing. At graduation ringling would make offers to the cream of the crop. And various other circuses would pick up the rest. There was a huge influx of South American clowns at one time and then when Russia collapsed and all the state run circuses and schools collapsed all sorts of circus folk migrated. We know the names and faces of the most successful clowns over the years...the rest remain in the blur of the circus ring.
Omg...Clem was fantastic. Ever seen his oatmeal cooking? Amazing. Mark Victor Hansen (of chicken soup for the soul fame) said he was his favorite as well.
