The Wild Canadian Boy by Tom Holt

There was a wild Canadian boy; I dare not tell his name
For fear that on the printed page he'll give me doubtful fame.
But science fiction, fantasy and such was all his joy;
There never was a scholar like the wild Canadian boy.

He studied hard by night and day until his brain was packed
With constipated wisdom and a solid wadge of fact.
And though his brain was bigger than the state of Illinois,
It left no room for thinking for the wild Canadian boy.

And when the headache grew so bad he could endure no more
He sadly left his native land and made for Albion's shore.
And oh! his heart was gladdened when they shouted `Land ahoy!'
`At last I am in England,' said the wild Canadian boy.

In nineteen hundred and sixty-nine he started his wild career,
A critic some would come to love and others grow to fear.
And every book with furrowed brow like finest corduroy
He'd scrutinize and comment on, that wild Canadian boy.

And when his taste and judgement were acclaimed throughout the land
He said `To write my masterpiece the time is now at hand;
A vast encyclopaedia -- half a ton, avoirdupois --
Will be a fitting project for the wild Canadian boy.'

By Sol's effulgent splendour and by Luna's silver beams
He tabulated wonder and anatomized our dreams.
By phyle and genus and such types that botanists employ
He pressed and dried them in his book, that wild Canadian boy.

And when the work was over and the mighty task was done
He looked around him, yawned and said `I'll write another one.'
And on his quest he pottered forth, like Ulysses from Troy;
He never had a moment's rest, that wild Canadian boy.

And great stupendous words he used to frame his thoughts serene,
Though there were times he wasn't sure exactly what they mean.
Some writers he would fawn upon, and others he'd destroy,
But nothing was omitted by the wild Canadian boy.

Imperious his language is, and complex is his style,
But mostly you can work it out, although it takes a while.
And wild and woolly paragraphs that puzzle and annoy
Are frequently the trademark of the wild Canadian boy.

So now the second volume goes galumphing through the press:
It may not be quite perfect but it's awesome nonetheless.
And some may mutter `Oh my God,' but most shout `Attaboy!'
If only 'cos they daren't offend the wild Canadian boy.