Victorian London Road.

They sit in silence, their heads hung low

As the people walk, making a nasty row

Yelling at them calling them ugly toads

Taking their money and spilling it on the road

They asked for nothing, just someone to behold

And house their bodies, empty as they were broke

To feed their stomachs, and buy them nice clothes

Dirty-looking, torn clothing, they sit on the road

A group of children, all pale and skinny-boned

Rejected by their parents, now living on their own

Begging for alms, from the rich and snobby folks

That walks confidently in their million-dollar robes on this same road

Three to seven orphans, all crowded in a row

Lighting newspapers for fire, clearly cold

They shiver in the snow, dreaming of home

And new opportunities on this dusty Victorian London road.