Now, I don’t want to bring you down
Or turn that grin into a frown
Or drive your bus to Bummer Town
But, hey, it’s what I do.
When lemonade is needed, I
Rain sour pickles from the sky.
I’m sadness in a ragged tie
And one enormous shoe.
(The other’s caked in poo.)
The point of having me around
Escapes most folk. My friends have found
That having been by me enclowned
Brings plethorae to rue.
(That’s not the plural, true,
But, like the cow said, “Moo.”)
I’m disappointed, too.