Somewhere in England is a hole underground,
Prob’ly fifty miles deep and half of that wide,
And the thing that’s carvin’ this cavern so great
Is the old man spinnin’ round, just spinnin’ inside.
When ever dear Mary Sue opens her mouth,
The moment a character steps out of line,
Or if letters are shuffled from true canon order,
The spinnin’ starts speedin’ in that cavern so fine.
If you walk near the spot, you may feel the tremble
Of the old man that’s spinnin’ and carvin’ the cave,
Don’t you make a fuss, or worry a moment-
It’s just poor old Tolkien rollin’ over in the grave