Oh I say he’s just that troubled artist in need
Feeling sick about how his sensibilities proceed
Breaking away like a child off to abandon his seed
And bearing such pain to contain his unusual breed

Though I must agree to people who find him rather funny
His penchant for translating normality into an oddity
Perhaps such humor maneuvers his fancy to the ordinary
So conceal the crying boy beneath that abnormality

Behind those rubber shoes, if he must, grow a beard
But actors on the street may not always succeed
For wise men pick easy an unnatural stick in a field
As you and your gift simply make an inseparable creed

Alas, it is nights when he secludes himself I worry
To unload that talent which has been stored in secrecy
Comes this hidden case from under the bed, not even Mom could see
Wretched is the man whose talent causes him to bleed in pity

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