The Pierrot's Narrative

'I was a high wire artist with a circus I kicked my legs in the air, hung over Death My aunt's a thirteenth cousin to Camilla' The girl announced. 'I'm terribly well bred.' `I seen you Saturday last at the supermarket Fillin shoppers' bags, ' the small boy said. `My ma says not to believe a word you tell me- Says you're a crack-pot, not right in the head.' Off went the girl with a toss of her golden mane Like a circus lion, melting into a sieve Her face as white's a Pierrot, lips like thunder Not every grown up fits her narrative