Irregular shaped and fable worn Dark secrets protrude like broken bones Shadows on the cobblestones
The billy slaps a rhythm on his palm as he walks the Bobbies beat While the reflections of the gas lanterns flicker Fogged shapes in the pale light; dark upon the cobblestones
Hooves and wooden carriage wheels chase the crag Burdened by the wayfarer Clip, clop, creek, wear the cobblestones
Top hats of beaver, fine cloth and feathers Silver tipped canes clack in-time with an aloof gate From spent pipes the dottle drops upon the cobblestones
Tormented fingertips protrude from shabby gloves Wet wool stench from ragged blankets These; now long bereft of greater sires Tin cupped figures huddle on the cold wet of the cobblestones
“Good evening Sir”; mutters a shameful voice, “Can you spare a pense Sir”? The down turned mouth of contempt panders bye O tight is the purse strings of noses high Rarely heard, ever a pittance falls upon the cobblestones
Dark circled eyes, like soot stained memories upon aged brick Her cloth is poor, hollow cheeks voice a cockney murmur “Are you in need of some company love”?
A rotten toothed grin, he is loathsome and degrading “What can I get for a shilling”? Her tattered plaid indignity pulled above her bruised knees She opens the door reluctant¬-- Her eyes cast down among the shadow on the cobblestones.