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The Fire Of London

Oh I perused those dirty streets 
with cane and pomander a must, 
scuffed knees and nasty wheeze, 
poor urchins begged for a crust, 

I could not touch them with charity, 
the rats had given them sores, 
between the rings and sneezes 
red X's were painted on the doors.

Oh mothers and your poor fathers 
were never to rise from their bed, 
they slept on the cart that night, 
to the calls of "bring out your dead".

Those alleys of cobbled stone 
where houses of straw and wood 
touched the sky and each other 
where the bakery proudly stood.

Pudding Lane, I remember, 
the fragrant waft of fresh bread, 
a brick oven was primed and lit 
disguising the smell of the dead.

Drunk on rough gin the baker slept 
while sparks ignited the dry straw, 
fire spread, as keen as the plague 
to inflict some misery once more.

Oh my ode to London town; 
"Red, gold and orange flames, 
will you forever reflect 
upon the silver Thames?"

An eerie silence then befell 
the streets as the fire consumed, 
I stood among the flimsy ashes 
where acrid billows plumed, 

Oh I perused the smoking embers 
and took comfort, well earned, 
the satisfaction, that in the fire 
ten million rats were burned.

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