The Pierrot's Narrative Poem by Sheena Blackhall

'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