Note to readers: I'm just going to warn you now, I'm terrible at writing poetry, so please pity me and be nice. This is just a humorous little section of verse about how the Doctor seems to be able to twist the simple things that we believe in without thinking and suddenly make us see that we're not always right. But then again, neither is he! Enjoy!
HE HASN'T A CLUE
We can all agree that a "T" is a "t"
And that maroon is a shade of red.
We can all agree that the Earth is round
And that toast is made from bread.
That cats and dogs, even mutts and moggies,
Are really of similar face.
That cultural prejudice would end,
If we all were one big race.
But did you consider that letters are fibbers;
Only squiggles upon a page?
And that lines in a script were intended a way
That wasn't portrayed on the stage?
Perhaps colours around us, in the eyes of another,
May be opposite or rearranged,
That blue for you is orange for me,
But we end up calling them the same.
It's questions like these that are pointless enough
To capture the cynical mind
Of the one who's such a child inside,
Despite being nine hundred and nine.
He may chatter on about atoms and energy,
Explaining in words we deem true.
It may seem that he has the answers to all,
But really, he hasn't a clue.