WITH HIS SKETCHPAD UNDERNEATH HIS ARM
Words: Robert Asprin
Music: "Anne Boleyn"
At SF conventions late at night,
A man named Kelly Freas stalks the halls;
A felt-tipped pen clutched madly in his right;
The deadly instrument with which he scrawls.
And what he scribbles halfway through the night
From any other man would mean a fight!
CHORUS: With his sketchpad underneath his arm,
He stalks the SF bowers.
With his sketchpad underneath his arm,
He can scrawl for hours.
You go out to a party. You tie onto a dog.
You toss a couple doubles down. You're walking in a fog
And when you sober up, you're on the front of Analog;
From that sketch-pad underneath his arm!
Now, Polly's at a loss about her spouse;
She holds her temper gracefully in sway;
An ordinary guy around the house
Until a con or full moon comes his way.
He says, "One minute, then I'll be along."
It's been three hours! Where has Kelly gone?
She's always patient; always calm. She's calm of word and speech.
She doesn't blow her cool with him. She doesn't scold or preach;
But the next time he shows up he's got a collar and a leash
And a sketchpad underneath his arm ...
Now Kelly is a friend of Dorsai folk.
There's always laughs and smiles when he's around.
He sketches them with ease between the jokes.
In turn we honor him with drink and song.
The patch they wear is one of his designs;
And done for free, which blows the Dorsai's minds!
He's always friendly; always smiles. You never see him fuss.
We all are loyal fans of his. We feel his every loss.
Now anyone who rips him off will have to come through us
For that sketchpad underneath his arm!
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