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.