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
