Puppet Theatre

In the black dust the stamp of angry feet
Trampling the deft hands' makings, tearing down
All in the dangling world's slack, indiscreet
Bearing, shaking a cackle from the clown;
And outside, the door is locked to the rabid hordes,
But falling, Nemesis thundering on the boards.

Limp from snapped strings the tinsel men flop down
Bedraggled, bruised, unkempt under the feet
Of this one, ominous, evil-tempered clown
whom no brief, begged aside could make discreet;
And outside, the door is locked to the rabid hordes,
But falling, Nemesis thundering on the boards.

Blood's synthesis, a paint, more indiscreet
Than any stabbed man's shirt, kisses the clown
At laughter-absent eyes, ridiculous feet,
Who pricked his pantaloon and kicked him down;
And outside, the door is locked to the rabid hordes,
But falling, Nemesis thundering on the boards.

A last grim act, in sweated grease, this clown
Turns with his mimic gesture. A discreet
Curtain is poised to swing his doom, ring down
And end it, purpose wilted at his feet;
For outside, the door is locked to the rabid hores,
But falling, Nemesis thundering on the boards.