We was paid of a Saturday night,
Tide us over Sunday morning,
Sunday’s dinner still to be bought
this Saturday evening in November.
Scarves pulled tight against the air
Damp pea-soupers everywhere. 
The market was bright, alight
With candles, gas jets, grease lamps,
The fires of the chestnut roasters
Amongst the cacaphony of cries
Traders calling out their wares:
“ Bootiful sea food whatever you like.”
Butchers in blue aprons dripping
With blood illuminated by gas jets.
Barkers bawling outside the circus.
Peelers parading the slums off of
Oxford street. Everyone keen
To make a penny for porter.