Poem of circus fuss,
Where people love that which cussed:
Like when a clown performs,
It's what alarms, warms;
Yet when a juggler flows,
It feels slow?
Like how can it be so?
When a lion pounces,
The crowd announces;
Yet with tame and plain,
No flame and slain,
The crowd doesn't exclaim?
Instead disdain,
Slowly proclaim,
For the lion to bring pain,
Or at least entertain;
So all can reclaim,
Something not mundane.
So to shock is the cause,
Yet why the knock or the pause,
Perhaps a mental block;
Where we can't undo the lock?
Recognizing the skill,
Instead of want the kill.
Learning not to applaud,
Because it breaks the clause;
But rather it implores,
To do something more.