Written on the eve of the airing of the episode Day Of The Doctor, the fiftieth anniversary episode of Doctor Who.

Twas the Eve of the Doctor, when all through the nation
Each Whovian was buzzing in anticipation.
The fanboys and fangirls all set their alarms
In hopes that the episode might ease their qualms.

The history boffins were talking of Dallas,
And visions of Kennedy, felled by man’s malice.
While broadsheets reported on spies in the tropics
And Governors-General and other such topics.

When out on the lawn in the November moonlight,
A strange groaning-wheezing! A fading-in blue light!
Away to the bathroom I dashed for my toothbrush,
Then out there to meet him I flew in a huge rush!

The sign on the box read “Police” “Public Call”
Though I knew that no constable owned it at all
(Not since when the Met tried to reclaim the logo
And BBC lawyers made clear it’s a no-go!)

But its occupant, leant upon that wooden door,
Was not one I’d seen on the TV before.
I knew all eleven, plus “Tucker” and John,
This must be another, from much later on!

Not Colin! not Peter! not McGann or McCoy!
Nor Tennant! nor Troughton! nor the skinny Smith boy!
No bowtie or trainers, no scarf or umbrella!
So who was this Doctor? Some much later fella?

And then, eyes a-twinkling, he gestured to me,
As if to invite me to set myself free.
I ran for his TARDIS, no thoughts of delay,
For how could I throw such adventure away?

He greeted me smiling, then lifted his hand,
And shot me, quite fatally — just as he’d planned!
But I heard him now gloat, as my life faded faster:
“One more future President falls – to the Master!”