Dearest darlingest future me,
‘Ello! How are you? Err, how is me? How will me be? Wait, don’t answer that: spoilers. Anywayyy, right now I’m a bit bored in the TARDIS. Must be Sunday. So, I thought I’d try out the ‘ol advanced poetry degree (remember, the one we earned during our artsy-fartsy phase? What with the cat pin and the outrageous jacket? Oh gosh, don’t tell me that future me is wearing that again. Or worse, a flamboyant hat.) Welllll, on to the poetry:
Rose isn’t dead.
The TARDIS is blue.
Bananas are sweet.
Raxacoricofallapatorius..
Oh Captain! My Captain Jack! Our fearful TARDIS trip is done.
Your eyes have explored every female’s rack, the man meat you sought was won.
Two timelines diverged in an open vortex, and I-
I took the one more traveled by,
so that I didn’t accidentally destroy all of Time, Space and reality itself.
To be, or not to be - Wellllllll, that is a really pretentious question, as
‘ol Willy thought himself.
Whether ‘tis Donna Nobler in the mind to suffer a two-way meta-crisis…
Do I like green eggs and ham?
I do not like them, Tenth Doctor I am.
Do you like green eggs?
I don’t know. Maybe my Eleventh self likes spam or jam or clams or grahams or rack of lamb. Or even taking a physical exam while eating canned yams with someone named Jam and scoring a grand slam. Dammmmn.
I do not know about him yet, Tenth Doctor I am.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Nahh, in most atmospheres, I prefer spring, thank you. Not too cold, not too hot, and all you need is a light jacket.
This poetry thing isn’t working out so brilliantly, is it? I suppose I’ll try another day. Stay clever, self!
Does it need saying?,
*Insert endless squiggly crop circles that I can’t quite write out with this measly Earth-made feather pen here*