Ode to William Faulkner

Follow your wily, emaciated verse
to the arrow of the sparrow's tongue,
so precise it incises your insides,
surprising your sinusoidal innuendos
with fifteen-year-old boys named Menudo.
Men you do will haunt you
with hyperbolic hyperbole about their members,
and their club burns in the embers
of another generation of degenerate rejects.