In Defence of the Decision to have Roger Moore Dress Up as a Clown for the Bomb Disposal Scene in Octopussy

Our heroes often seem like clowns at first—
a twitch or piercing stare, too damn intense.
We cannot comprehend their urgent words:
the truth that first appears in gaudy dress
elicits laughter from the seated plebs,
until the ticking bomb pans into view—
the counter running down its final pips,
(collective colons trumpet toodle-loo!)
and what was once the brunt of ridicule
is now the steady hand, the measured grasp,
our final tie to the corporeal,
as open mouthed, we occupy the cusp
of this whole breath, this ever fleeting now
that tears us from our dreams of tomorrow.

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