When I am an old TARDIS I shall wear a police box
With a bright green lining, which does not suit me.
And I shall squeeze my roundels like acne into black-heads.
I shall potter along in the way of Mongol hordes
And flop myself down at the Big Bang for a sulk
And groove disreputably to the Cloister Bell.
I shall like my floors well grilled
And corrupt impressionable supernovae.
You can plait your cables into dreadlocks
Or become blowzy and big-bellied with all the rooms
Which seemed like a good idea at the time
And forget where you put the swimming-pool.
But now we must conduct ourselves decorously
And trot in crocodile from Now to Then
And be prim and proper under burnt orange skies
With a dress code of wimple white.
But maybe I ought to get into practice
So that the Universe is not too perplexed
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear a police box.