The night was so still, so warm, so dry,

It is London, never resting, under a velvet southern sky,

Piccadilly now empty bathed in neon gold light,

A taxicab unloading boxes at the Ritze’s doorstep that night.

Two men arguing, as they smoked their last cigar,

On the corner of Bolton Street outside a bar,

A garbage lorry cruised the curb its brushes whirring around,

It heads towards the circus clearing litter from the ground.

There are nights whose peace lies like cloak across the town,

Wind blowing through a garden, denied flowers, in its stone gown,

An old drunken begger staggers and sings as he lays down,

Happy, some kindly person gave him, a fortune, a half a crown.