Coins of Mist
Who's the little old man selling matches?
And the sounds on the boxes—who scratches?
And the peering pale woman—her flowers?
Does she tint them and scent them for lovers?
Do the scarecrows go lighting the lamps to
Cause shadows to shudder as tramps do?
That slow girl—her dress like a posie?—
If there's any to pick it now—who's he?
Those coins made of bubbles of mist—oh,
Whose were they and the troubles that kissed so?
Where's London Bridge falling again to?
Have the tears of the Thames dug a lane? Who
Belongs to the throat of the tune there?
And the only face visible's blown—where?
Where's the little old man selling matches?
Where's the light in the sky—and who watches?
And the sounds on the boxes—who scratches?
And the peering pale woman—her flowers?
Does she tint them and scent them for lovers?
Do the scarecrows go lighting the lamps to
Cause shadows to shudder as tramps do?
That slow girl—her dress like a posie?—
If there's any to pick it now—who's he?
Those coins made of bubbles of mist—oh,
Whose were they and the troubles that kissed so?
Where's London Bridge falling again to?
Have the tears of the Thames dug a lane? Who
Belongs to the throat of the tune there?
And the only face visible's blown—where?
Where's the little old man selling matches?
Where's the light in the sky—and who watches?
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