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.