The clock at the heart of the city strikes one
A chilling wind oozes through the tattered curtains
The room beyond is dark, a dying fire in the grate
Beds un-made, a glass of gin on the table
An old hat, left behind on a peg
A small box sits, innocently, beside a gaping floorboard
Robbed of its contents, no longer wanted
For its owner has fled, along with the rest
The flames sputter and die
The room pitched into blackness
Now lit only by the rays of moonlight
Filtering in through the cracked windowpanes
"Flit, boys, flit!"
He'd screeched
They'd bolted for the door
He'd stuffed his jewels in a canvas bag
Donned his hat and scarpered
But returning once more
To rescue the still slumbering boy
Left behind in his panic
The air is still tainted
With frenzy and fear
Fagin and his young charges
Once resided here