I’m the class clown and I love it. I need no props, no funny faces, just words. My words dance from wall to wall terrifying and creeping up on her, how her leap of faith leaves her vulnerable with no balance, no hopes of being saved, because she’s no cinderella and I’m not paid to be her prince charming. I’m not given the Queens currency for clownish behaviour but the change would not impact my financial status, I’m broke now and I’ll be broke when it all ends. I simply love every moment my jokes break free from my mouth and ripples through the room bringing to life an expression I rarely see on their miserable faces. I take pleasure in hearing her scream my name in hurricanes of laughter and chuckles, how her words end up cremated and her presence buried in the soils of snorting that no one seems to be ashamed of. My banter lingers in the armour of joy she hates, her and her stakes coming to kill us all but I see how she forgets that she means nothing in the grand scheme of things, just a figure head stapled to the system.