Oliver Twist, born in squalor and strife Never knew the comfort of a warm bed’s embrace Angel-eyed boy sold a vagabond’s life Discovered the danger in a kind stranger’s face He slept in his boots, always ready to run Always two steps ahead of the constable’s gun No coins in his cap, so he stole every scrap In absence of shelter, he learned love is a trap Yet the heart is an organ no grinder can master And to damn one’s desire only ensures disaster In this rainy gray city, he found arms that would hold him With compassion and truth the world never showed him And his virtue was strong, but his fear held him captive For what is an orphan once he finds a home? He shot a good man so he could plead “not guilty” In his well-worn boots, he fled London alone Deep in the garden, he retreated ‘neath nature A frightened fawn from the blinding dawn In his cave he cowered, like Plato’s prisoners And hid from his love till all love was gone