My father was tailor His workshop by the dock He'd turn out farmers' Sunday suits And vanities he'd mock. He saved up for his firstborn A start most scholarly And off they packed my heedless head To White's Academy. Surgeons' sons and scriveners' sons With their turn of phrase most glib Told me I could go to hell And, well, it seems I did. The father proud and saintly The son a workshy drunk, A serving-girl from Charleville Gave me her final months, Her body with its hungry sighs, Her trusting, hopeful soul; Until the breath gave out on her, All that I wished I stole. Her family came to bury her, I looked on wordlessly, Those high-boned faces, set from rain, And not a glance at me. The night is bright and cloudless, The stars are bearing down, And no-one will spare a bite to eat In this mean and vanquished town. Shelter's for the virtuous, not for the likes of me, Four hours from dawn, I climb up onto White's Acadamy. I see the rotten alleys, The marsh they partly fill, The wide and snaking river, And those mansions on the hill. You must strike all who come near you, For your nature so requires, Now rot you easy, goodnight and good day, There'll have to be A fire...