The Meany clown is who he is.
He makes a fun-house from their dreams.
Our little ones that sleep in peace.
From their silence he brings screams.

Bloody hearts that beat in sync.
He juggles them you see.
With a bike thats' made from human bones.
And a rib he stole from me.

Then there's that bell that jingles, when he walks.
And that leg he likes to drag.
The crunching of bones between his teeth.
Don't even ask what's in his bag.

His face a picture show of hate.
His favorite food another child.
Hungry is this brutal beast.
And the sounds he makes, just wild.

So when you go to sleep tonight.
Beware the meany clown.
And if you see that bloody bag.
Expect to see his frown.

                                  By Keith L. Smith