John Smith - A Poem
I heard your voice a several times,
I listened your noise,
it sounds like rhymes.
Tic-toc, it goes all day long,
where do you really do belong?
You are in his hand, his pocket, his mind,
until he opens you,
he will be blind.
Blind to see, that he isn´t John,
his name isn´t Smith
and who he came with.
I know it´s hard to save the world,
a girl-Martha Jones, has you told.
Take the watch and open it,
that´s the End of John Smith.