"The Fools of April," A Poem

by William Shakespeare

Every year at this time the editors of The Awl commission a poem by a respected scribe to best encapsulate our feelings about the day. We hope you enjoy this one, because we pretty much blew the April budget on it.

The Fools of April

The fools of April early rise
To better share their silly lies
They don their finest fooling clothes
And start to spread their prankish prose

The fools of April love to jape
No barrel bottom won’t they scrape
There’s not a joke for miles round
The fools won’t beat into the ground

April’s fools play silly tricks
But they can eat a bag of dicks
Mark me, fellows, here’s the crux
These fools are fucking stupid schmucks

Every year the same lame jokes
April’s fools are fucking mokes
How to end it? Here’s an answer
Let them all get anal cancer

Or better still, some rare disease
That makes their balls fall past their knees
I wish the worst upon these tools
Who think that they are April’s fools

I’d like to see them in the ground
And people come from town to town
To take a shit upon their graves
As tribute to these assfaced knaves

Twere better that they died at birth
Then spend their time upon the earth
Pulling off their stupid gags
The fools of April can lick my crack in the middle of Times Square on live television. Seriously, fuck those guys.

William Shakespeare is considered the greatest writer of the English language. Don’t Fuck Me In The Ass And Tell Me That It’s Hemorrhoids, his new book of relationship advice, will be published this fall by Harper Studio.