The sick, the ruined, the insane,
bound behind thick iron chains.
Indestructable armour rusting and peeling,
well beyond help or healing.
Sitting there, unmoving,
tortured thoughts causing mental bruising.
Thoughts of a man - master of the clocks,
With his screwdriver and a little blue box.
A madman, a legend, a lord of time.
An alien constantly in his prime.
Conqueror of the ill,
Nothing but thrills and skill.
The daleks, this unstable race,
meeting the madman throughout time and space.
Those who failed to perish,
relish in thoughts oh-so hellish.
Daleks deafeated by the timelord,
but did not die, on the brink of restored.
Reliving memories of the past,
Their state above and beyond aghast.
In an explosion of fire and flames,
Sounds drowing inaudible exclaims.
Feeling the heat though the metal, striking the core,
These are the daleks who have come across the Doctor before.