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Twain's Lament

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Twain's Lament

My Zen is the eighth
My obsession sits just left of center
Reachable in two

On the perfect summer day
The Bent grass is summer baked
I am born and re-born in sweet July

When I die sprinkle my ashes here
On the crest, just inside the 1-7-0
An unadulterated view of the long eighth

Of all, this is was the last crow’s caw
And is now my everlasting
Not by perfection. D-5W-7 chip

Straight from the analogy our guides
You came up short, should have been D-3W-P
Now haunting my past-present-future

Someday, the crow will call again here
And it will be perfection.
I will hit this crest, on in two, one in.

Lay my ashes here
And never lament what Twain called
“A good walk spoiled”

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