I haven’t done a poem in a while, so here is one.
* * * * *
There’s no finer display than Miss Eglantine Heaps
Acrobat queen of the circus elites
No one can match her in high-flying feats
Aerials, pullovers, roundoffs and leaps

Everyone worships Miss Heaps, though in vain
Crowding the tent tight as frogs in the rain
Hoping to woo her with jewels and champagne
Snubbed, every time, with a sneer of disdain

She’s too good for any of ’em.
There’s no sadder display than the circus clown Chuckles
Slumped with despair and so down on his luckles
Weeps like his soul has been dragged through the muckles
Pulled every step by his bootstraps and buckles

The crowd hushes to hear Chuckle’s car-a-mel tones
Crooning melodies sweet as pink strawberry scones
Songs of longing, of stardust, of candy-floss cones
And of custard cream pies that would never be thrown.

At the circus tent door hides Miss Eglantine Heaps
Tasting the song like rich candy-dipped treats
Holding it close as a baby chick’s peep
Face etched with such longing
she almost looks sweet.