Thompson
The urchins are writhing around in the mud
Like eels playing tag in a barrel
The old Sally Army sound mournful and sweet
As they play an old Christmassy carol
The world is as black as a dark night in hell
What kind of a place can this be?
Old people like hermit crabs run into doorways
Fearing to say "Do you feel as downtrodden as me?"
Ting-a-ling, Ting-a-ling
The Devil he leans on your bell
The future looks black as before
And the sun never shines, the sun never shines on the poor
The rich man he dreams of his gold and his plate
And his house and his car and his women
The poor man he dreams of his one-roomed estate
And his wage packet, short by one shilling
The last penny falls through a hole in your jeans
Now ain't that the way when you're down?
Just walking in circles for the rest of your life
And feeling so low that your chin scrapes along on the ground
Ting-a-ling, Ting-a-ling
The Devil he leans on your bell
The future looks black as before
And the sun never shines, the sun never shines on the poor
Now some of the people are poor in the purse
They don't have the cash at the ready
And some of the people they're crippled and lame
They can never stand up true and steady
And some of the people they're poor in the head
Like the simpleton fools that you see
But most of the people they're poor in the heart
It's the worst kind of poor, it's the worse kind of poor you can be
Ting-a-ling, Ting-a-ling
The Devil he leans on your bell
The future looks black as before
And the sun never shines, oh the sun never shines on the poor