Weather Clowns

Under the weather, all gristled and grey,

sit four clowns, or maybe six. 

The clowns sit down and do not play.

Even paler than make-up, they look sick.

They sigh and they say nothing,

as clowns most never do,

their outsides grey and their insides blue. 

And under the weather, all gristled and grey,

sit four clowns, or maybe six. 

They have many banana peals,

suspenders that they fixed,

they have quite proper wigs

biggest of shoes, reddest of noses,

and well aimed, water squirting roses.

Yet under the weather, all gristled and grey,

sit four clowns, or maybe six.

Each sighs thinking it's alone,

drawing in dirt with sticks,

not one of them counts

not their brother or their sister

nor the m'am or the mister. 

Now under the weather, all gristled and grey,

stands one clown, in midst of six.

His tears falling with mascara,

his sobs sound just like hics. 

Five clowns hear the sound

and around the one they stood

all their tears fell fast and felt good.

Thus under the weather, all gristled and grey, 

stood clowns crying and numbering six. 

the rain saw them and was saddened

and started dumping itself down like bricks.

six clown's makeup washed clean

and clothes all wet, hair soaked like dawn

the clouds emptied and soon were gone.

At last under the weather, now a bright spring day,

worked so many clowns, I remember them six,

they painted each other's makeup,

and together practiced their shticks.

They finally remembered each other

Their family was bright and revived,

losing loneliness they were now alive.