Driving home through the shonky side of town,
three times out of ten you'll see the town clown,
like a basket of washing that got up
and walked, towing a dog on a rope. But
don't laugh: every pixel of that man's skin
is shot through with indelible ink;
as he steps out at the traffic lights,
think what he'll look like in thirty years' time -
the deflated face and shrunken scalp
still daubed with the sad tattoos of high punk.
You kids in the back seat who wince and scream
when he slathers his daft mush on the windscreen,
remember the clown punk with his dyed brain,
then picture windscreen wipers, and let it rain.
This line brings up a third aspect of clowns. Aside from being funny and sad, clowns can also be terrifying. The punk has made himself into a monster fit for scaring children. The “kids in the back seat” reflect the domesticity of the poet’s life, begun with “driving home”, which contrasts so drastically with the clown punk’s life. 

The Clown Punk