The fires are warm, the streets are cold,

























The ideas are new, the buildings are old.
























Mysterious business left to unfold,


























Stories created to later be told.

The era of sweeps in blackened rags,






























Of steam trains, and top hats and woven carpet bags.





















Her majesty’s tower is adorned with coats and flags,






















And in the city life ever onward drags.

The Victorians are people of sense and of pride,


























Both nobles of fame and criminals whom in the underworld hide.















Tall buildings of brick packed side by side,
























A horse and carriage providing the daily ride.

The livid fog hangs over the city thick,


























The Thames gushes on, strong and quick.
























Street arabs sell the paper, each thin as a stick,

























While rogues run by in search of pockets to pick.

Victorian London is a city of charm and delight,


























Buzzing with life by day and filled with shadows by night.



















Here Dickens will stroll, Conan Doyle his pipe will light,




















And as the era progresses, the world prepares for the Fight.