The night before Christmas Eve,
Harry and Rose bed down for the night.
In an impromptu nest,
in a Portland Hospital doorway.
Their worn sleeping bags,
have seen better days.
And likewise their bodies,
all ragged and cold.
Revellers from a nearby pub,
make merry with booze:
for tis the season,
to be jolly.
None of them see Harry and Rose,
as they flag down cabs,
that take them home,
to warm feather beds.
In the morning they are moved along.
Because hospitals need doorways
and even posh people, with warm feather beds,
get sick on Christmas Eve.