Thursday 8 March 2012

Whitechapel Wino




Caught up in the shadows,


Feral and all alone.


Despised by the London masses;


They stop, they stare, they moan.




Like a pigeon with a limp,


Like a stray with a bone.


Overlooked by many;


Refused a shilling loan.





Struggling to make ends meet,


To stay upon his feet.


Wrapped up in a blanket, keeping in the heat.




A Whitechapel wino, not a friend to his name;


Gin and scraps he lives on, to support his tiny frame.


And as the smog engulfs his backyard,


And as the Bow Runners chase him on.


I don't know where he comes from, I don't know his name.










Sitting by the fruit stalls,


As the gentry swan on by;


No emotion on his face,


He neither smiles, laughs or cries.





Living by the opium pipe;


Can only numb the pain.


It may hide the heartbreak,


But won't keep out the rain.




Staring through the Inn window;


Sprawled upon the frosty street.


An hour feels like a day;


A day feels like a week.





A Whitechapel wino, no belongings to his name;


Gin and scraps he lives on; his tiny body lame.


And as the smog makes him breathless,


And as the Bow Runners chase him on.


I don't know where he comes from, I don't even know his name.

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