The Clown, by Henri Matisse (France) 1947

​Class Clown

Back when life was butt-dull, class clown was the only label to name his antics. 
As thwarter-in-chief dispensing hokey-jokey verbal volleys from the back seat, 
he’d have us peeing in our pants. As he penciled the same cartoon figure, 
hand forever in motion; fodder for colorful comments was not limited to burps, 
belches, farts. Even stoic-faced Hardiman might smirk the odd backhand: 
“Fitz, if you learn to bottle that, you’ll be a rich man!” 

Once, a tad competitive for laughs, our principal, nick-named Joe Moon, 
dusty chalk imprinted all over his soutane, foot-in-mouth lobbed, 
“Pythagoras had a lovely theorem. Lads, you’ll like this one. With me, Fitz?” 
“Yes, Brother!” 
“The squaw (square) on the hippopotamus (hypotenuse) is equal to the sum 
of the squaws (squares) on the other two sides!”

And before all of us, Fitz sprouted sideburns. His baritone voice powered 
beyond comedic one-liners. Last I heard, he’d learned Japanese and was working 
for a car manufacturer, overseas.