Lament of An Old Footpad

Alas, the days of yore are done,
The chimes at midnight heard;
The glorious feasts of yester-eve
Long since reduced to turds...

And all my lovely buxom whores
Are saggy, toothless hags,
As mimsy as the borogoves
For whom the Time just drags...

I haunts the Underground at night,
A-cutting random throats
And purses filled with jingling coins
To buy me beef and oats...

Ha-ha! Old Pew they calls me,
Everybody thinks I'm blind
And helpless, till I've cornered them
And slit their--never mind!

So if you lose your way tonight
Up Piccadilly way,
Take care you do not cross my path
If you wants to see the day...