394 – Donald McRonald

Poem number 394
Donald McRonald
A rictus smile etched out in red
Beneath the perm his eyes are dead
His brother Ronald grins with glee
But Donald’s not quite right, you see
He isn’t kind or gentle, sweet
Is not the word – he’s incomplete
A fragment of his mind is gone
And whilst dear Ron smiles on and on
Dear Donald, well he likes to kill
Small animals, then drink his fill
Of blood, he decorates his flat
With lemur femurs, strangled cats
His painted grin so wide, so fun
Belies a soul that’s over-run
With doubt, confusion, endless pain
A clown that lives in pouring rain
A clown with psychopathic dreams
And painted, rictus silent scream.


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