Pretty damsels treading, merry go round and rounds,
Spinning plastic coloured hair with their lipstick gauged in mounds.
Fat ringmasters laughing through stained breath,
Starring down through whitened noses as they sniff on powdered death.
A ring of fire made for whipping jumping brown bears,
With bow ties around their necks and bells around their knees.
A plethora of constant, swirling gypsy riddled tunes,
The sad clowns are smiling with ghosts of their slipped youth.
Debauchery, pick-pocketers, hagglers and beggars,
Scantly dressed whores peg their way through lonely stragglers.
And children are delighted with strings of coloured sugar,
With puppets shows of Punch and Judy abusing each -other.
The underworld of this world where desires are embraced,
Unleashed in a playground where madness runs beneath the race.
I guess we all need,
The illusion of this place.
A decadent illusionary poem for the circus of living.