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Nine Tomorrows

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I Just Make Them Up, See!

To Betty Shapian, whose kindness and helpfulness have been unfailing


I Just Make Them Up, See!


I Just Make Them Up, See!


Oh, Dr. A.-


Oh, Dr. A.-


There is something (don't go 'way)


That I'd like to hear you say.


Though I'd rather die


Than try


To pry,


The fact, you'll find,


Is that my mind


Has evolved the jackpot question for today.


I intend no cheap derision,


So please answer with decision,


And, discarding all your petty cautious fears,


Tell the secret of your vision!


How on earth


Do you give birth


To those crazy and impossible ideas?


Is it indigestion


And a question


Of the nightmare that results?


Of your eyeballs whirling,


Twirling,


Fingers curling


And unfurling,


While your blood beats maddened chimes


As it keeps impassioned times


With your thick, uneven pulse?


Is it that, you think, or liquor


That brings on the wildness quicker?


For a teeny


Weeny


Dry martini


May be just your private genie;


Or perhaps those Tom and Jerries


You will find the very


Berries


For inducing


And unloosing


That weird gimmick or that kicker;


Or an awful


Combination


Of unlawful


Stimulation,


Marijuana plus tequila,


That will give you just that feel o'


Things a-clicking


And unsticking


As you start your cerebration


To the crazy syncopation


Of a brain a-tocking-ticking.


Surely something, Dr. A.,


Makes you fey And quite outr??.


Since I read you with devotion,


Won't you give me just a notion


Of that shrewdly pepped-up potion


Out of which emerge your plots?


That wild secret bubbly mixture


That has made you such a fixture


In most favored s. f. spots-


Now, Dr. A., Don't go away-


Oh, Dr. A.-


Oh, Dr. A-


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 yarns 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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