One quickly learns to fall and roll, (The pratfall is his stock in trade) But hard surfaces take their toll, Although the fall’s expertly played. He’s just the universe’s tool Grinning though his blood may boil A well-placed and convenient fool (The harlequin’s the perfect foil.) The passing years have not been kind (His back is shot, his knees are spent) But still he keeps the thought in mind That other wounds are permanent (He may never bring the house down, But no one persecutes a clown.)
This bit of doggerel borrows the title of Leonid Andreyev's play, which most certainly is not.