Looking Down at my Clowns

My words are clowns with soft plastic hammers
That slapstick silly their clown master’s brain
But appear pantomimic when I take
Some toast and tea with T. S. Eliot
Because, I’m afraid, we both would agree
It’s impossible to say what they mean.

Nor do I know why the universe spins.
With all our science I only know how.
So I will compose some nursery rhymes
Much like the aforesaid Eliot did
In Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
And spin on this circus’s merry go round.