His prose is heady, themes bleak, bombs are steady
Please get the awards ready, this author ain’t deady
He’s furthest, from the pop-culture armageddon
He's a recluse with a purpose and you're far from gettin'
What he wrote down, the whole sky screams so loud
He opens his mouth but the turd won’t go down
He’s chokin’ now, the whole book’s broken now
His cock’s gone up, take cover, explosion - Pow!
Snap back to hilarity, oh, there’s goes gravity
Oh, there’s goes Pynchon, he’s dope, he’s so rad but he won’t give up irony, nope, he’s old-fashioned, he knows
that David Wallace destroyed his whole faction, he smokes
He’s high daily, it shows, he’s so batshit, he trolls
The /lit/ board as his games download patches
It goes, he plays Crysis on Ult with no crashes
He better go pick up a pen and write ‘fore he passes
