Down on Oxford street where the West end ends and the
lonely keep
dreams by the fire and some who are tired
dry under the cardboard,******* in the cords that life
has wrapped around them,
there are some men just wired,high feeling fly and
robbing the rich folk is how they get by,
some girls seek fame,some on the game,
some hide away from the looks that the day gives,
everyone lives to their own set of standards and
morals are banners flying high on the wild winds of change.

In the mornings when dustmen clank loudly,proudly asserting their right
to empty the nighttime of trash
there's a rush to the mission of the most holy of Mothers
where the sisters of mercy serve up pancakes and tea,
On Oxford street see,
it's not who you might be or who you once were,it's who's there to care for the lost souls of London or
who puts their hands out to help up the lonely and only the Mothers know what was once, if only they knew not.
And the spot by the fire is forgotten until the day ticks away, and the lost tie the knots in the hankies of memories to remember the way to go home.