The Time Lord Warp

A little parody I wrote a bit ago.  Enjoy.  Or don’t.

 

Its astounding,

Time is fleeting,

Many bodies, one soul.

We’ve got Capaldi,

(Not for very much longer)

Then a new Doctor will keep control.

 

I remember, watching the time wars,

Thinking of the moments when,

Regeneration would happen,

 

And the fans are calling,

CAN THE DOCTOR BE A WOMAN!?

CAN THE DOCTOR BE A WOMAN!?

 

Is it a plot of the Left?

NO THE TIME IS RIIIIGHHT!

Put your hands on your hips.

ITS TOO LATE TO FIIIIGHT!

 

YES HER PELVIC FROOONT, DRIVES THE TROLLS INSAAAAA AAAA AANE!

YES THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

YES THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

 

Its so seamy, they say a woman cant be,

In charge of the T.A.R.D.I.S., no, not at all.

In every dimension,

With altruistic intention,

The Doctor, can be any or all,

 

Yet still the bros flip,

Like we cut off their dick tip,

And nothing can ever be the same.

They bitch over on Reditt,

Its too late WE’VE SAID IT!

 

THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

The days when my skin won’t fit

Its one of those weird, floaty days,

When nothing feels right,

When my arms feel like a costume,

They hang loose, not tight,

When this body of meat i wear,

Drags heavy, not light,

And I’m looking out another’s eyes,

This isn’t my sight.

 

I hate feeling big, bull in shop,

my skull rattles round,

I wish the sloshing sound would stop,

Every doorway too small,

I turn and from the desk things drop,

My flesh a jacket,

Handed down, too large it still flops,

These days when my skin just wont fit.

 

Cicada’s Promise

Three nights ago, the wind blew with fervor,

And red brown dust darkened the air,

I watched close my porch, a keen observer,

By dawn, not a drop landed there.

 

Two nights ago, Zeus’s chariot rolled,

As flash after spark lit the night,

Thunder shook, it promised, it told,

Of rain still absent by first light.

 

Last night, I could feel it in chest and bones,

My nose filled with Nature’s rutting,

She teased, till I prayed to Maiden and Crone,

On blue skys the sun woke strutting.

 

Tonight my ears with an Oracle fill,

A sweet song to this desert rat,

The first cicada buzzes on my sill,

A concert of hundreds, heavy and fat.

 

A prophecy made by that droning sound,

Whispers in the dark a promise,

By the next day’s twilight, rain will be found,

Believe, and don’t be a Thomas.