I find myself a refugee from a thread of my own creation, but over there in "Blasphemy or not" very learned people are having deep thoughts on things theological and I have a sneaking feeling that the introduction of a dead mouse might be interpreted as rodent induced thread creep.

InOBU requested me to post the words of "The Clown" a song I wrote with my brother Cormac many years ago. I'm delighted to do so in fond memory of his dead pet mouse, the late lamented Bongo Knock, a lifetime companion of InOBU and his wife Genie. Apparently my brother Cathal sang the song for them one night in New York.

Needless to say the theme "the death of a clown" is perhaps one of the oldest musical cliches of all time. But I was never a man to turn my back on a convenient cliche that was close to hand and could be utilised in any way possible. Anyway, here it is.

The Clown


Back in the Summer of Seventy-Three
sometime after the matinee
A one-lion circus in our one- horse town
suffered the loss of its' senior clown.
The Upside-Down Lady on the low trapeze
found him gasping on his tweed-patched knees.
Her swift sure hands tucked him into his bed
the smile was painted, but the clown was dead
the smile was painted , but the clown was dead.


Eternity's just a one night stand
sawdust to sawdust; sand to sand
flip-flop shoes and a cherry nose
He's gone to God in his Working Clothes
He's gone to God in his Working Clothes.


They bade their farewells by the candyfloss stand
to the grease-painted corpse in the Bedford van
On a tall high hill of weathered stones
we laid down his funny bones
we laid down his funny bones>


The Strongman built him a box of pine
the eight-o-clock show ran at ten to nine.
The juggler juggled with the greatest of ease
and the bright smile flew on the low trapeze.
We buried him deep in the dead of the night
the tent came down in the morning light
and all that was left on the 'morrow morn
was a sawdust circle and a square forlorn
a sawdust circle and a square forlorn.


But I'll always remember the heart-breaking sound
of the gravedigger's spade in the stony ground.
Beside the tomb of Monsignor Jones
we laid down his funny bones
we laid down his funny bones


Eternity's just a one night stand
sawdust to sawdust; sand to sand
flip-flop shoes and a cherry nose
he's gone to God in his working clothes
Beside the tomb of Monsignor Jones
Both went to God in their working clothes

Mickey.