Help me write a poem praising the clown.

Dark clouds are rolling over people's heads, and the gilded country is rotting and silent. The clown who sings hymns is looking forward to his master's reward. A slap in the face of truth, lightning strikes the liar's face. The unmasked king licked the fresh blood in his mouth. Honest minions travel by candlelight, counting sweat-soaked gold coins. I don't know how long I've been dead, but those ghosts are still laughing and walking in the crowd in the square. Under the ruins of the classroom, children's immature reading sounds came at night. In the collapsed mine, death smiled and took away several finalized contracts. Who can control this huge imperial machine and prevent it from rushing off the cliff? Who castrated the people's tongues to prevent them from questioning? The laurels and flowers belong to them. Please continue the gilded game! I just want to bear your shame cross and put on your evil thorns.