Bukowski’s Ass

He typed and typed; his pants below his knees
He didn’t seem to care or try to please—
Anyone who stumbled in his path
Were often met with many words of wrath.

What’s to know the genius in the crowd
Who’d kill to love the hate, which he’s endowed.
Art will find its place as time will pass,
But, up ‘til now Bukowski’s shown his ass.

— Dean Hall