Rejection Slips
a-Learned
Dear Asimov, all mental laws Prove orthodoxy has its flaws. Consider that eclectic clause In Kant's philosophy that gnaws With ceaseless anti-logic jaws At all outworn and useless saws That stick in modern mutant craws. So here's your tale (with faint applause). The words above show ample cause.
b-Gruff
Dear Ike, I was prepared
(And, boy, I really cared) To swallow almost anything you wrote.
But, Ike, you're just plain shot,
Your writing's gone to pot, There's nothing left but hack and mental bloat.
Take back this piece of junk;
It smelled; it reeked; it stunk; Just glancing through it once was deadly rough.
But Ike, boy, by and by,
Just try another try. I need some yams and, kid, I love your stuff.
c-Kindly
Dear Isaac, friend of mine,
I thought your tale was fine.
Just frightful-
Ly delightful
And with merits all a-shine.
It meant a quite full
Night, full,
Friend, of tension
Then relief
And attended
With full measure
Of the pleasure
Of suspended
Disbelief.
It is triteful,
Scarcely rightful,
Almost spiteful
To declare
That some tiny faults are there.
Nothing much,
Perhaps a touch,
And over such
You shouldn't pine.
So let me say
Without delay,
My pal, my friend,
Your story's end
Has left me gay
And joyfully composed.
P. S.
Oh, yes,
I must confess
(With some distress)
Your story is regretfully enclosed.
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