Oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clement’s.

Now in the silence of New England afternoon
Hear on the eastern wind the sound of London bells
That in their thunderous night ring only for our ears.
You owe me five farthings say the bells of St. Martins.
What are they singing of now, what is it the ringing tells?
Are they crying only of blood, and sweat, and toil and tears?
What are the songs of a city in the days when the bombs descend?
When will you pay me say the bells of Old Bailey.
Out of the underground and the smells and the constant fears
Is there a hope to reckon, is there means to an end?
Or is there only future annihilated into past?
When I grow rich say the hells of Shoreditch.
Surely the bombs are questions, surely the senses rend
Out of the chaos answers, out of the surfeit fast,
Out of the long night-crying some estimates of the soul.
When will that be say the bells of Stepney.
Now do you hear the ringing, how long will the singing last?
Out of the bells and the bombs who walks forward whole?
Out of the bells and the singing what do you make of the tune?
I do not know says the great bell of Bow.
Hear the bells of London ring in our afternoon,
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.