Foggy Harbour Days

I’d heard London was foggy as a smoky bar

At Charing Cross Waterloo the Isle of Dogs

Red shining lights glowing through spooky fogs

Under the bridges where sailors smoke dope

Hands raw from rope and blackened by tar

I didn’t take the ship stayed at Fontenay

Sniffed at the real through an English breakfast

Drank bitter and porter read the forecast

Preferred to read Dickens to get the feel

Of fog on the river down Limehouse way

I sat with my cases drank Cockburn’s port

Read of warehouses and drowned sailors

Who sometimes climbed out of the brown river

In the chilly blue fog at Lambeth pier

And went back home to Fontenay fort

I’d heard London was foggy as a smoky bar

Full of pick pockets, thieves and street sellers

Whitechapel whores slashed by Jack the Ripper

And took a cab back to my sanctuary

Pretending my hands were blackened with tar.