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ConValescence

Words and Music: © 1998 by Tom Smith
with a denouement to the tune of Mark Bernstein's arrangement of "The Green Hills of Earth" by Robert A. Heinlein
This is intended as a counterpoint to Frank Hayes's wonderful song "When I Was A Boy". It also points up something I've been thinking about lately: When will someone come up with a fannish retirement home? It makes perfect sense, and the only problem will be lots of fans retiring early to get in.

Nothing can last forever,
Nor halt the progress of Time,
So imagine us all together,
When we're all way past our prime.

Our children still won't understand us,
Their children will covet our toys,
So now is the time we should plan this,
Retaining our fannish joys.

(Chorus)
So let us all gather at ConValescence,
The fannish retirement con,
And true to our habits, like drumming pink rabbits,
It keeps going on and on.

When we cannot keep up with the gamers,
When the Next Generation's too spry,
Let's all move into The Bionic Arms,
And party till after we die.

The guests, of course, are all legends,
The cream of the speculative crop,
Still writing their stories long after
We've given up hoping they'll stop.

There's Piers Anthony's newest Xanth novel,
David Eddings, Misty Lackey and thus,
Between that, and Star Trek books, we're certain,
That the series won't end before us.

(Chorus)
So let us all gather at ConValescence,
Where old-timers go to renew,
(optional spoken shtick:
"Renew! Renew! Attorney General Renew!")
Where Doug Adams' hero is named Effer Dent,
And the Film Room shows Mister Magoo.

Where the Art Show has pictures of Dorian Gray,
Where the Tully and oxygen's pure,
And where we will party, flirt, filk, shmooze, and SMOF
Till the Con Suite runs out of Ensure.

Just try to imagine that banquet,
Of whatever foods we can still eat,
And the Masquerade will take forever,
'Cause with blue hair, we all can compete.

And on Sunday, we'll have us a dead dog,
Stuffed, on wheels, with a braided pull-string,
And then we'll go back and start over again,
We've already forgot the whole thing.

(Chorus)
So let us all gather at ConValescence,
The fannish retirement con,
And true to our habits, like drumming pink rabbits,
It keeps going on and on.

Waiting till the last moment for tickets
To that WorldCon that's up in the sky,
We'll have a last bash at The Bionic Arms,
And party till after we die.

(Denouement)
We pray for one last landing on
The planet third from Sol;
When our journey ends, we will wear Depends,
And take our Geritol.

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