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
ragged:
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.