Whilst I am clad from head to feet
And covered from the cold.
Thousands there are who scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
But I've a warm and well-aired cell,
A bath, good books, and bed.
Whilst they are fed on workhouse fare
And grudged their scanty food,
Three times a day my meals I get,
Sufficient, wholesome, good.
Then to the British public "Health,"
Who all our care relieves;
And when they treat us as they do,
They'll never want for thieves.