If you roam around Piccadilly at night looking lost,

You will meet well-worn characters but beware of the cost,

Young men with a careful overdone Oxford brougues,

Who in time will suggest a game of cards with a trio of rougues.

A liittle vampire with a hard mouth and cheap scent,

With tears falling down her face say you are heaven sent,

She slips an arm through yours and tells you a wretched tale,

And she desperately needs money for her brothers bail,

And if you have heard this for the first time round,

She will swagger off with your note a crisp new pound.

Unclean people who make you want a bath,

Will pick on the lonley, lead them along their path,

But some in London when you are alone at night,

Are good caring people that will see you alright.