The Fire of London
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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