Up in heaven, I've heard mention
There's an SF scribes' convention
Where every body's feeling fine
Having passed that last deadline.
Here they run relaxed, less
Brunner's orbit's much less jagged.
C. Smith chats with Roger Z.;
Bester? Much less tenser, he.
Kornbluth's writing novels solo;
Asimov's unstrung his bolo.
Robert Howard left his Mom;
Heinlein's asked his to the prom.
E. E. sees without his Lens;
Philip Dick is winning friends.
C. S. thanks God for grace He's granted;
Campbell feels a tad supplanted.
Tiptree's baking. In a dress.
Piper plays with guns far less.
Farmer Tolkein feeds his ducks;
Herbert's plotting Dune Redux.
L. Ron Hubbard's finally clear.
Although, of course, he isn't here.