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Banshee, whole no. 4, March 1944
Page 7
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Banshee * * * 7 The Aspirin Eaters by Raymond Washington, Jr. "Patience! he said unto the grumbling clan, "This Model-T Ford will roll us homeward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a fan Who seemed to be a monster, or a goon. All round this fan dim voices seemed to croon, The world seemed but a dark fantastic dream; Leering above these fen there stood a moon; They heard a last dispairing anguished scream, For Lycanthropes were bathing in a nearby stream. Out stepped the bravest fan: "My honored sir, Please tell us how to get away from here. We're far away from home; lost, as it were, And fain would quench our thirst with wine or beer. And if there be loose women on the street Perchance we'll stay with you a little while ... We're always glad our fellow fen to greet; Out hearts are heavy from the trip; a smile Would sure beguile our hearts, though it were strange and wild." The silent fan said naught. Instead, he grinned And bared his fangs against the westing sun; Bleak were the streets, devoid of fan or men-- Then someone shouted: "Fanzines by the ton!" In that weird meadow, obviously shunned, No one cried out, or sang aloud his fame, And round the Model T they tried to run-- Black faces pale against that rosy flame, The pink-eyes, awful, horrible Aspirin-Eaters came. Boxes they brought of that enchanted stuff, Laden with prozines and fruit, whereof they gave To each (disguised, of course, as Bluebell Snuff--) And he that gorged fell down into his grave. Far off the ocean seemed to roll and rave, On non-slan shores; if a survivor spake His voice was thin, as voices from the grave. Their hears beat heard; they all semmed wide awake, And yet, asleep. They swore, "What's this, for Science's sake?" They sat the down upon the yellow sand, Beside their Model T, upon the shore, And sweet it was to dream of friend and fan. Days passed. They would not shave. And evermore More futile seemed S.F., their chosen Crops, And futile seemed all things, and far away. Then someone siad, "We ill return no more;" And all at once they sang: "It's tought, we say, Our mags will not be in the next F.A.P.A."
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Banshee * * * 7 The Aspirin Eaters by Raymond Washington, Jr. "Patience! he said unto the grumbling clan, "This Model-T Ford will roll us homeward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a fan Who seemed to be a monster, or a goon. All round this fan dim voices seemed to croon, The world seemed but a dark fantastic dream; Leering above these fen there stood a moon; They heard a last dispairing anguished scream, For Lycanthropes were bathing in a nearby stream. Out stepped the bravest fan: "My honored sir, Please tell us how to get away from here. We're far away from home; lost, as it were, And fain would quench our thirst with wine or beer. And if there be loose women on the street Perchance we'll stay with you a little while ... We're always glad our fellow fen to greet; Out hearts are heavy from the trip; a smile Would sure beguile our hearts, though it were strange and wild." The silent fan said naught. Instead, he grinned And bared his fangs against the westing sun; Bleak were the streets, devoid of fan or men-- Then someone shouted: "Fanzines by the ton!" In that weird meadow, obviously shunned, No one cried out, or sang aloud his fame, And round the Model T they tried to run-- Black faces pale against that rosy flame, The pink-eyes, awful, horrible Aspirin-Eaters came. Boxes they brought of that enchanted stuff, Laden with prozines and fruit, whereof they gave To each (disguised, of course, as Bluebell Snuff--) And he that gorged fell down into his grave. Far off the ocean seemed to roll and rave, On non-slan shores; if a survivor spake His voice was thin, as voices from the grave. Their hears beat heard; they all semmed wide awake, And yet, asleep. They swore, "What's this, for Science's sake?" They sat the down upon the yellow sand, Beside their Model T, upon the shore, And sweet it was to dream of friend and fan. Days passed. They would not shave. And evermore More futile seemed S.F., their chosen Crops, And futile seemed all things, and far away. Then someone siad, "We ill return no more;" And all at once they sang: "It's tought, we say, Our mags will not be in the next F.A.P.A."
Hevelin Fanzines
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