text: Cryptic Dick, I think Frank Sinatra did a song about  sending clowns.  I like that song.  Isn't it rich, Isn't it queer. Don't you approve.  Staring around wondering why can't you move. So sure of myself.  No one was there, sorry my dear.  Send in the clowns. Don't bother they are already here  People seem confident but not me.  No problems in sight....venture into the night.  I am a person without currency, No papers.  Where am I?  Is this America. Somebody, somewhere told me about Waikiki.  No, no, not for me I am on land but I am still at sea.  I can smell freedom.  I see people and touch the dock but I am still at sea.  What if I died here. Would they just call me Al.  I  can call you Betty you can call me Al.  The rest of my life is so hard. Far away from my well-lit door.  I need a photo-opportunity.  If you be my body guard I can be you long lost pal.  Where is my wife and family.   Along, along, there were incidents and accidents.  Hints and allegations. Is it real.  No.