The Jester Adrift

Standing up alone, on that hill,
Amongst the cold, and the chill,
Wind running fingers through my hair,
Calm and without a single care,

Coat flapping in the breeze,
The lone victim of a sleaze,
Cast out by his fellow peers,
With their Superior sneers,

Thrown out flat onto my face,
But i never belonged in that place,
So i got up, and dusted off,
And drank from the house trough,

Gathered up my fallen masks,
Threw them behind the empty beer casks,
Set off again down the windy track,
Smiling and never looking back,

Staying one night here, another there,
In return for amusement and repair,
Not having to sleep alone,
But from each place i am blown,

Routed by an invisible will,
Cursed never to stay still,
Driftwood on an empty ocean,
Driftwood without any motion,

Because i was the fool, the joker,
The jester who laughed with his face in the ochre,
So i move on from port to port,
And  to think once i was in the kings court.

Author's Note

The Jester again. He really is on my mind.