What I would trade to clown as Chaplin clowned!
Oh, how I wish to lift your countenance,
For even if in lakes of tears I drowned,
Your joy would be my own joy's sustenance.
My heart's not bent on critical acclaim,
Nor on the riches of celebrity.
If only in your heart, I bore my fame,
The rest the world would be but dust to me.
Yet, Charlie, Groucho, Buster, and the rest
Draw smiles from you while I draw but a shrug.
Where would be love, what I am I detest,
Less to myself than mud beneath your rug.
The mask of tragedy, I'm forced to wear.
And my reward? A thinning head of hair.