Dear Mr. Faulkner,
When I think of your books
One thing comes to mind
When I’m trying to push,
Things out my behind
Sometimes it’s so hard
For your words to come out
That I grunt and I strain
And I heave and I shout
You might think me crude
Or say I’ve no class
But William you are
A huge pain in the ass
You twist the intestines
And cause gas inflation
Or make me spew forth
Or cause constipation
The hard bits that get through
Your “nuggets of gold”
Are the baffling reason
That your books get sold
So now Mr. Faulkner
Without much ado,
I just want to say:
William Faulkner? Faulk you.
