The grey-chained city stands sullen as mud,
Torpid and tired, in worn winter rags.
The silver faced puddles watch baggy eyed skies,
And beer cans and paper in the stone gutter lie.

On the bench in a bus stop by an ad for champagne,
Lies a raincoat wrapped figure, his back to the world.
A pale shade of sadness lies tight round his heart
And he clasps a brown bottle in a broken nailed fist.

And this chill Tuesday evening, his lodgings he shares
With two clerks, a bus driver, barber and nurse.
No sounds from their waiting, they pretend they’re not there,
Their faces bent down to the cold, concrete path.

On Wednesday the scene is repeated once more,
With two clerks, a bus driver, barber and nurse.
And the raincoat wrapped figure still lies as before,
On the bench at the bus stop in the Bayswater Road.

On Thursday the team assembles again,
By the bench at the bus stop in the Bayswater Road.
And the nurse asks the barber what’s become of the man
Whose brown bottle lies smashed at the end of the bench.

And finally the God given Friday rolls round
For two clerks, a bus driver, barber and nurse.
In silence they stand and pretend they’re not there.
By the bench at the bus stop in the Bayswater Road.