The Funny Man

Some think the man who writs the jokes

     Is merry all the day;

And all he ever has to do

     Is write dull care away.

They seem to think he cannot help

     But write his joke or pun;

That he is living in a sphere

     Of never ending fun.

Apparently they think what joy

     ‘Twould be to live anear

This merry natured creature who

     Lights up the atmosphere;

Who changes all from grave to gay

     And bubbles to the brim;

But let me tell you, one and all,

     Life is no joke with him.

He has a wife and children six,

     Who daily cry for bread;

He has to dig their living out

     Of his slow working head.

He’s usually in such a grouch

     Because his jokes won’t flow,

The very air he breathes is blue,

     Or laden down with woe.

Ah, no, avoid the funny man

     You think so very cute

Don’t risk your life, accept my word

     He is an ugly brute.

And when the great white page is writ

     With names all purged from sin,

St. Peter’ll bar the funny man –

     His jokes won’t take him in.

c. May 4, ‘09