Classic Poem

The night is a circus tent.
The stars are peep holes
the bad ones have made
to spy through on us.
Why aren't the gods like us?
Why don't they pay
and come in the way we did?
Are they poor?
Are they cheats?
Maybe they fear we'd make clowns of them?
Suppose we did—
aren't clowns the gods of our circus?
What's the matter with those fellows?
Tell them to climb down
and come in free.
We don't want them staring in on us.
It annoys the performers.