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.