Mark Twain

The Mississippi River will always
   run its muddy course,
But white paddle boats have cried
   whistles of remorse,
Mourning black pillowed smoke
   for mustached men gone ashore.
The pilot house is empty now,
   the paddle's muddy wake is no more.
The old oaks ashore given way
   to small hamlets and progress.
Haunted plantations have seen there day
   but for those memories you've left.

Above the dust of Jackass Gulch
   the sun will always shine.
Blue-jays shout their cackles still
   casting nonsensical rhymes.
In the valley where camp was
   the center for our folklore,
The miner's pan full of gold dust
   is not so commonplace anymore.
The mountainside's face is gray
   today's travelers takes to the air.
When you left us in those early days,
   you took horse buggies and county fairs.

Our memories of history
   were your author's toil,
But now history and humor
   are saved on celluloid.
Pen, pad, and printer's press-
   now out dated by video.
But your writings and humor are
   after a century: remarkable!
When San Francisco fell and died
   You followed Haley's tail wither.
For nearly a hundred years we've tried,
   but no one since has matched your humor.

-dp-
(c)12-3-82 / 3-4-13