A paragon was Rog, heroic in the air, without airs
One of the most magnificent funambulists at ease
Whether walking a rope or flying on a trapeze,
Though he blessed the earth with no dauntless heirs.
None could ever hope to meet his burly like again.
How admirable was the way he stood, so poised
Muscles taut on his tightrope, the crowd un-noised
Agog, as he stepped off his platform drum, laden
With two massive iron balls held above his head
With nothing but his huge iron-bar moustache
To balance him, and a saving sense of panache.
Rog was unembarrassed though unencumbered.
He bore no unnecessary clothing, as he began to stride
Going forward, forty feet above the hard ground,
Looking straight ahead, as the crowd made no sound,
Eyes turned up at his almost bare bottom, and sighed
They gazed in awe, hushed in uncritical admiration,
As Rog held a two hundred pounds weight of iron balls,
Heavy, manly balls aloft, to earn him the more applause,
Balls steady over his glabrous head, wet with sudation.
The audience gasped as the taut rope trembled,
Twanging elastic beneath his firm, slippered feet.
The still warm wax in his moustache dripped suet.
Sweat oozed through his striped jumper, downward.
But Rog didn’t tremble. Rog went forth on his way,
The way of the funambulist, not dithering or wayward.
Until the wax from his moustache fell ropeward.
Rog’s foot was sure; Rog’s arrant slipper caused dismay.
Rog slipped, and crashed to the ground, earth thumping,
Dropping his iron balls into the crowd, with abandon,
Maiming and slaying as Rog smashes into a circus lion,
Crumbling his skull, whence his brains were pouring.
The loitering lions were saved the trouble of cracking.
But Rog should not have waxed his handsome handlebar
So soon before he stood so perilous high, airily ahover.
There will ever be another Rog, so frightfully smashing.