We always knew our Art Director at Welsh Icons, Norris Nuvo was a talented chap but it was only after one of our recent live events that he let slip that he wrote poetry as well.
It took some persuasion but he has finally consented to allow us to publish a few of his verses which we hope you enjoy as much as we do.
Daleks Come From Skaro
Daleks come from Skaro, or so it has been said
Created by old Davros, who was quite off his head
A master race of pepper-pots, out to dominate
All creatures in the universe they must exterminate
They spread across the universe toppling every system
And exterminating everyone who even tried to ‘diss them
Yet time and time and time again they failed to subjugate
The one man who stood up to them, the man they’d come to hate
He called himself, The Doctor! He was such a pompous twat.
Sometimes he wore a cricket top, sometimes a floppy hat
He drove a car called ‘Bessie’ and lived in a box of blue
And when opportunity arose, he loved to sonic screw
He rounded up the Daleks, and thought, ‘when all else fails’.
I could shove them down an abandoned pit, somewhere down in Wales
And there they all will languish, down deep among the coal
Until they give up all hope, and just sign on the dole
And one by one the Daleks died, from all the fatty food
Daytime TV, and S4C all depressed the cosmic brood
The last one left was a drunkard who hung around the town
They called him Dai-Coalscuttle, but he always bought a round
But came the day when old Dai died, of rust and dust and rot
So they opened him up and scraped him out of his metal pepper-pot
Patel-the-shop took his camera eye to watch for shop lifting scum
While eveans the baker used the head as a bowl and made a whisk from his gun
The lights from his head we use every year to crown the town Christmas tree
All the electrical parts, wires and stuff, was claimed by Jones-the-TV
Dic the plumber a new plunger he made out of old Dai’s arm
And the actual remains of old Dai himself, were fed to the pigs on the farm
So the last of the Daleks died in Wales, his exterminating days were though
Recycled, he was, by the folk of the vale, who had long learned how to make do
Marginalisation had done him right in, that, and the Boredom and Beer
And now at last there are no Daleks left, now there is nothing to fear
But I miss old Dai, his metallic voice gave such a lift to the choir
He would tell his tall tales while we sat in the pub he was such a bloody good liar
He became one of use, Welsh I mean, a drunkard through and through.
Aye he’ll be missed, But will be avenged, when we blow up Doctor Who!
