The S. F. Authors' Song
To the tune of the Philosophers' Song
Oh, H. G. Wells made some fearful smells,
And Verne was a champion farter,
Fred Pohl, Fred Pohl shoots flames through his hole,
But he can't out-fart Lin Carter.
Arthur Clarke in a single bark,
Can demolish half the gents,
And L. Ron Hubbard has to do it in a cupboard
Or he'd overload the vents.
Harlan Ellison does smellies on a half a can of beans,
Asimov himself has a valve let in his jeans.
John Brunner, John Brunner, what a drippy old runner,
It doesn't sound much but the stench is a stunner,
When Fredric Brown lets his trousers down,
He could shatter all the windows for miles around.
Jack Vance, Jack Vance blows holes in his pants,
And Disch makes a first class stink,
And Eric Frank Russell has a rectal muscle
That could toot through Lily the Pink.
Oh - Asimov himself is a man of many parts,
A stinker of a writer and a stinker when he farts.
