Bah! let me sing about St. Giles,
And chronicle the sin of toddy.
Long years ago, St. Martin’s Fields
Were ripe with grain and purple clover
Where grisly thieves the kitchen shields,
And yellow ’busses topple over.
The very spot, where rose the lark
To sing its song to all creation,
Is given over after dark
To deathly deeds and desolation.