An outcast from comfort, a bondsman to pain,
The shivering prey of the frost and the rain,
The thrall of King Bumble must patiently dwell,
’Midst scenes that might fit the grim Florentine’s Hell.
Foul garbage-choked footways snake on through the slum,
Where the sweet airs of heaven seem never to come,
Where a bird shuns to ’light, where a flower ne’er waves;
Where the grass will not grow, though it grows amidst graves.
Home, Home, Sweet, Sweet Home!
As ruled by King Bumble, a sweet place is Home!