They once loved London after Midnight,

before the long days of tears and fright,

when what darkness held was to blame,

for morbid tales of bloody gutter shame.

London hid at night with knife in hand,

in gas lit alleys where the beggars stand,

demanding of each passerby a pound, a pence,

and to give would be the best of common sense.

Horses hooves on cobblestones keep the beat,

to the constant rain that taps like a thousand feet,

Big Ben buries a stifled scream with its chiming heart,

below people play deaf to what miseries shall impart.

Feed them, the hungry, the sick, the cold,

Feed them the lessons of the bought and sold,

and you, standing there with a shocked face of sins,

knowing full well your depravity starts when night begins.