I have a little handbag
That sits upon my knee
But inside it’s much bigger
Than a handbag ought to be

It takes in bottled water
By the litre. And the pens!
Hear them rattle in despair
Of ever being found again.

There’s mints and sticking plasters,
And a glasses-mending tool,
Nail files, clippers, stamps and tissues,
And a fan for staying cool.

Deep in its dark and endless
Hidden depths there may well be
An old three-volume novel,
“Title Pending”, by “L.P.”

So I pay no attention
To what the labels say;
I think my little handbag
Was made on Gallifrey,