Nine Tomorrows

To Betty Shapian, whose kindness and helpfulness have been unfailing

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 dieThan tryTo pry,The fact, you'll find,Is that my mindHas 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 earthDo you give birthTo those crazy and impossible ideas?Is it indigestionAnd a questionOf the nightmare that results?Of your eyeballs whirling,Twirling,Fingers curlingAnd unfurling,While your blood beats maddened chimesAs it keeps impassioned timesWith your thick, uneven pulse?Is it that, you think, or liquorThat brings on the wildness quicker?For a teenyWeenyDry martiniMay be just your private genie;Or perhaps those Tom and JerriesYou will find the veryBerriesFor inducingAnd unloosingThat weird gimmick or that kicker;Or an awfulCombinationOf unlawfulStimulation,Marijuana plus tequila,That will give you just that feel o'Things a-clickingAnd unstickingAs you start your cerebrationTo the crazy syncopationOf 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 notionOf that shrewdly pepped-up potionOut of which emerge your plots?That wild secret bubbly mixtureThat has made you such a fixtureIn most favored s. f. spots-Now, Dr. A., Don't go away-Oh, Dr. A.- Oh, Dr. A-