| He’s a man of the past and one of the present,
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| a man who hides behind a mask behind a mask;
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| a clown, a fool, believing it cool to be down
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| or that the game is all about who laughs the last.
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| So he tells all his problems to his friends
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| and relations, exposes his neuroses to their view.
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| They accept as fact
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| every masochistic mumble of his act;
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| how could they know what was false
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| and what was true?
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| Sometimes when he wakes
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| he feels he’s walked into a dream
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| but all it takes
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| to remind him things are what they seem
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| is the belief
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| that the man behind the mask can really dance
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| Pirouetting smile
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| he sees himself cavorting,
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| Pierrot for a while
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| before aborting
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| to find relief
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| in the shelter of the dark, most telling mask.
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| After all the pantomimes are ended
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| he peels all the make-up off his face
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| to reveal, beneath,
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| the tears running all down his cheeks:
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| alne, he opens to the world…
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| but it’s much too late.
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| He’s been left, in the end, without a face. |