In the grim back alleys of the city,Mean streets devoid of all signs of pity,Amid the piles of decaying refuseAnd slimy pools of darkly noxious ooze,Frequented only by the scuttling ratsAnd noisome tribes of scabby feral cats;Here, slumped in doorways, human flotsam lies,Just filthy piles of rags crawling with flies.In such surroundings, one would not expectTo find evidence of beauty’s rare spark,Yet with more careful eye...
