Untitled

The man clad in the jester’s suit
roars from atop the pitcher’s mound.
As the words gently roll from off his tongue
the truth becomes more widely understood.

This venue, like the muck in which he sinks,
reflects all the more in its yet diminished class
his capacity to think.

They all cheer voraciously,
whether it be from pity
or admiration, he no longer can distinguish.

The air quivers at the pronunciation
of each and every syllable,
but as his pride erodes itself
through such display
they see his lack of principle.

Another change of costume
and he’s nothing but a clown,
babbling in solitude
on an old deserted mound.

And there go the words flying
from his mouth, further proof
of his idiocy.
The more that escape,
the harder the fact will be
to cover up
his festering
stupidity.

In his favor this man has little going
save the fact he makes
for decent entertainment.

But when his life winds down as it surely will
he will find his surrounding devoid of any sound
but the gentle murmurs of his pathetic mumbling.

His last squandered breath will form a word
not even the wind will care to know.