Canned Laughter

I’m just the canned laughter.
Tagging along to show the clown my support.
Hitting each working man’s club,
In silk shoulder pads and gold,
Cause we wouldn’t want him to die.
Would I.

He’s had the same set for 15 years.
Each rehearsed punch line like a time bomb.
Waiting to rip your mouth open,
Throw your heads back,
And laugh!
As he preaches funny to room full of hens in pink cowgirl hats
And I’m left watching G&T spilling out of the side of their mouths.

But hey,
Cathy’s clown couldn’t drink faster,
As his tears plop, one by one,
Into his own pint of bitter.
Because there’s not much to laugh about at home.
When the curtains have pulled back and the house lights are turned on,
And you realise there’s no glamour in the words he’s been poking,
Only truth in his witty observations.

He needs your laughter,
But hell I need it more.
You see,
Laughter is like petrol, that’ll last him the car journey home,
And the only punch line I’ll be getting,
Is in the morning when I have to explain to the kids,
I banged my face off the kitchen cupboard.
Again!
Because some bastard heckled him.