He wrote of rotting death, and of beer cans left on Mars,
Of shining silver spaceships and their forces 'mid the stars.
He wrote The Martian Chronicles within the lower bars,
As he got stinking drunk.
Chorus:
Glory, how we hate Ray Bradbury.
Glory, how we hate Ray Bradbury.
Glory, how we hate Ray Bradbury,
The Poe of Modern Times.
Tell me, Ray, just what is it that makes you write of strife?
Is it a peptic ulcer, or perhaps a nagging wife?
Take a tip from E. Frank Russell and go write on love and life,
You morbid little punk.
(Chorus)
You had a tattooed madman who did never crack a smile.
Your heroes always end up dead. Gad, what a morbid style.
Tell me, Ray, how many graves it is that you've defiled,
And did you like the way they stunk?