A/N: Forgive my scatteredness. Some order has been attempted to be introduced. Be warned of spoilers for 08x08 MotOE. (PS: MotOE is a brilliant acronym. We should all use it more.)
Edited to Regina Spektor's Far album.
The man that makes
impossible decisions,
the man to whom
tranquility is prison,
the mystery shopper,
the unaccounted guest –
can he finally put
this old myth to rest?
The Orient Express!
Except travelling through space…
and spontaneous deaths,
frightened, without grace;
sixty-six seconds
'til he reaches you –
the militant, the mummy –
is that a clue?
Inevitable, unavoidable,
just sixty-six seconds,
say your prayers, describe him, quick!
And let's see what happens.
For a train full of clever,
and a Doctor to boot,
makes for only the best
of mystery-solving crews.
The Wizard of Oz,
the orchestrator, the thing
behind the curtain, the voice,
so mysterious, so cold, practically numbing…
Quell, he's next,
at the top of the list;
he fires some shots
at his pursuer in mist
because what kind of soldier
dies with bullets in his gun?
What kind of soldier
doesn't defend on the run?
You'll die, but describe him!
The tattered old thing
(The Raggedy Man, perhaps?),
hanging to life, clinging;
what is he like,
that only you can see?
Is he frail, is he weak;
just what could he be?
Next martyr, please!
Step right up, my dear,
Ma'am, I'm afraid,
your end is rather near…
He pretends to be heartless,
and she plays along:
"He thinks he can save you!"
but the lie, it tastes wrong.
"Hello, I'm the Doctor,
I'm your victim this evening.
Are you my mummy, my dear –
my soldier in grieving?"
Alive for so long
due to faulty mechanics,
phasing matter to life,
in need of a fix,
the menace, the Mummy
on the Orient Express,
on the Last Hurrah,
yet to be laid to rest.
Does it haunt you, my friend?
The war – do you remember?
The years, the battle –
and finally, "We surrender!"
And with just those words,
the mystery's solved,
the bandages fall away,
and, most of all,
the danger is past,
the Doc's saved the day,
and Clara's decided
that maybe she'll stay.
Such a radical change,
such a revolution as this;
what could be the cause?
Is it the impossible promise
of wonders, of beauty?
Of choices, of awe?
Is it the impossible decisions
of the last Lonely God?