When the pubs open each evening, each day,

An old woman with a tray of collar studs makes her way,

She goes into the pubs to sell what she can,

It’s hard work selling collar studs to a drunken man.

Next comes in a man with one eye,

Selling matches to patrons as he shambles by,

The box’s always seen lighter that the ones in the shops,

And there is the odd dead one, hidden inside the box.

Next is the consumptive-looking girl with a basket of flowers,

She goes from one pub to another for hours,

People buy because they see the desperation of the crawlers,

Hacking a living from the drunks and the brawlers.