The Joker.
Spends all his time
On his hair,
And make up,
Cover-up – the foundation of
His very life.
'Oh my god, look at him!
More eyeliner than me, ugh,
He has GOT to be joking...'
Right?
Joker, smoker, dealer, (whisper) murder
Maybe?
Or not.
He who laughs last, laughs longest.
Or something like that.
A battered inner lurks,
Bruised and hunting for, seeking that,
Revenge.
The scars don't heal – inside or out
But still he puts on a happy face.
He paints it on each morning with tears
Treading the past down that pasty
Pale
Painted
Face.
Through Carnival Street he tumbles and stumbles to your door.
Rat-a-tat-tat
'It's me!'
Rat-a-tat-tat
'The Joker!'
Cheerfully Door swings open and he slashes
Quickly.
Transfers the scars to another.
Paints a red smile on their frightened faces. And
In all the commotion, he doesn't realise –
His make-up, is wiped away.