The vitality of Piccadilly slowly ebbs untill about three A.M.,

A human figure becomes enigmatic when it’s empty of them,

The hoardings in the centre of the road look like an ugly scar,

The odd beam of light washes the Circus the lights of a single car.

Piccadilly at three A. M.  looks like a big empty theatre after the final show,

The cast have gone home, the audience too, all had somewhere to go,

Bottles tinkle in the dark, the noise of flapping paper, it’s all part of the night,

Talking and footsteps from afar, a loud cough, from revellers out of sight.

On the corner is a pillar-box it is standing guard, and tramcars rumble by,

Big Ben four gold faces shine the four points of the compass, in the darkened sky,

Soon alarm clocks will ring around the city getting people out of bed,

London at night, is the same as anywhere, as a wise man once said.