Inns
Not two coins to make a jingle
As they crowd the festive inn;
Not a word to warm my spirits,
Just a blurred carousing din:
Here's a man, travel-worn and harassed
Seeking shelter for the night,
His wife, pale, pregnant and embarrassed
Cowering from the doorway's light.
Not two coins to make a jingle
As they crowd the Metro bar,
Singing with half-drunken voices
Of a baby and a star:
Here's a woman shouting "scrounger"
As she passes with a lurch,
Drops her Christmas hat and staggers
Up the steps and into church.