Piccadilly is empty the pulse of London stilled,

There is a man sat in a doorway his ambitions unfulfilled,

A painted lady stands cold on the corner of Regent Street,

Two policemen walk down Leicester Square pounding the beat.

A taxicab cruises the kerb from Green Park,

No buses no tubes trundle in the dark,

The man in the doorway takes a long swig of beer,

He drinks to get courage, from the darkness and fear.

The doorman reflects the pain of his miserable lot,

He only has the stregnth to think when drunk as a sot,

Why is he sitting in the cold night air,

This wretched soul has no where to go, not anyware.

In the day as he staggers along the busy streets,

Begging for money from people he meets.

Ashamed and disgusted at the way he lives,

Living on the charity of the people who gives.

But why do they give, do they really care?

Or is it they think, it could be me sitting there,

Maybe they are too scared to say no.

So off to the other side of the street they go.