The Joy of Twain

O to possess his feverish wit and fierce mop of hair!
Our preeminent humorist spun like a carousel, smoked like a bear,
Published but seventy kilos of words (he reckoned) per year,
Except for dictation, which he sang like an urgent, verbose chanticleer.
The joy of Mark Twain resides in his folk-artful lickety-splits,
Hair-raising hairpinnish turns, juxtapositions, and cranky-pants fits—
His ornery, dang it I'll-say-what-I-want-sir and sacré bleu streaks;
All chatterers hushed when Clemens reeled off his incisive critiques.
He wove simple fables with factual threads into fabulous silk
Conversational robes, and from straightforward incidents squeezed out the milk
Of flavorful, rich, and sublime raconteurial eye-witness tales—
Not one of which ever tastes bland; not one ever pulls punches or fails.

Over a hundred years have passed
Since Samuel Clemens breathed his last;
I'm grateful he lived as long as he did...
I suspect he'll return as a Huck Finnish kid.

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The Joy of Twain