Chico....

         Chico….

Big red nose and a broken heart,
got a great story but where to start.
Everybody loves old Chico clown,
unaware of what brings him down.

Always we see his winning smile,
he loves his audience, it’s his style.
Feelings alive to anyone that’s kind,
craving their love, to soothe his mind.

Sometimes those sad feelings get so dark,
his life’s laid bare, emptiness so stark.
A painted face, can hide so much pain,
best defence yet, and it doesn’t stain.

Will we ever really see behind the mask,
and would we stare, or even dare to ask.
Chico the great old friendly man of mystery,
are the lines on his unpainted face a history.

Or are we ever only going to see his mirth,
because he feels this is his gift, his worth.
To run and play the fool, to fall and tumble,
forgetting his pain, could he be so humble.

He’ll never talk about the wife who died,
how he felt broken, how much he cried.
His is a way, a duty to go on living,
a promise made, that he’d go on giving.

So if you see Chico make an audience cheer,
look at the painted face with the single tear.
It’s there in remembrance of her last kiss,
a symbol of a love, that he will always miss.

Again when we watch the old tumbling fool,
playing along gaily, an art of the old school.
The show must go on, though you hurt inside,
smile through the pain and retain you’re pride.
 
A woman’s love once gave him peace,
now our applause, is his release.