The Shit Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Shit Tree

There's nothing sadder than just a poor, loveless woman burdened with stacks of books that are Just piling up in Her office They're there for a reason, to potentially delve into whilst comforting her child, but she never Reads as much as the Title page, and I don't blame her! It must be so hard to get through the day but, the pages are Stuck together like The glue on her child's hands, but what does that matter? This child is nothing but an Inconvenience, and an Additional punishment for such a beautiful soul. Why must she endure such a troubled Presence? She Doesn't deserve it, even I ask why? Why does she have to deal with this? Is it really that hard to Read the books you Wrote Why Why is it so hard, To read the books, That you fucking wrote I didn't ask for this. Hey? Hey! Did you ever think about me Am I of any importance To you Am I anything Below the carpet that you fucking bought on sale These books Aren't written in a different language Some of them were written by you Hey, can you read the title page to me It's in your handwriting Hey Authors don't read You don't have to read them I can't read them out loud You will not ever Open these books