You can kill the humorist, but not their cheeky essence;
Murder doesn’t darken laughter’s searching luminescence.
Throughout all the ages, and especially in France,
Humor has stayed rosy-cheeked despite the censor’s lance.
Rabelais had so much wit, and that of such a style,
That his Pantagruel would force a gravel pit to smile.
And Moliere raised laughter with such farcical delight
That audiences didn’t feel his universal bite.
Those who were made martyrs by today’s craven attack
Are probably now telling old Saint Peter he’s a quack.
And those that pulled the trigger to enforce an iron stillness
Are monsters that prove once again that censorship is illness.