Nine Tomorrows

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 outrй.

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-