An Evening at the Circus
by Elizabeth Creith
"It's been a long time since we've done this, my dear,"
He said as he butchered a clown.
"Yes," I replied, as I chopped up a mime
Who was clutching the hem of my gown.
"Please hand me my chicken gun, darling," he said.
"Is this it?" I asked, "Here on the wall?"
"Thank you, sweetums," he said, as he loaded it up.
I replied, as he shot, "Not at all."
The clowns fell like bowling pins hither and yon.
"Is that all of them, snookums?" I said.
"I guess it is, honey. Let's go and wash up,
Have a nightcap and head off to bed."
Elizabeth Creith lives, writes and commits art at her home in rural Wharncliffe, Northern Ontario, occasionally distracted by her husband, dog and two cats.
by Elizabeth Creith
"It's been a long time since we've done this, my dear,"
He said as he butchered a clown.
"Yes," I replied, as I chopped up a mime
Who was clutching the hem of my gown.
"Please hand me my chicken gun, darling," he said.
"Is this it?" I asked, "Here on the wall?"
"Thank you, sweetums," he said, as he loaded it up.
I replied, as he shot, "Not at all."
The clowns fell like bowling pins hither and yon.
"Is that all of them, snookums?" I said.
"I guess it is, honey. Let's go and wash up,
Have a nightcap and head off to bed."
Elizabeth Creith lives, writes and commits art at her home in rural Wharncliffe, Northern Ontario, occasionally distracted by her husband, dog and two cats.
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