The urchins are writhing around in the mud, Like eels playing tag in a barrel The old Sally Army sound mournful and sweet As they play an old Chrissmassy carol; The world is as black as a dark night in hell What kind of a place can this be? Old people like hermit crabs run into doorways All fearing to say, do you feel a downtrodden as me? Ting-a-ling, Ting-a-Ling, the Devil he leans on your bell, The future looks black as before And the sun never shines, the sun never shines on the poor The rich man he dreams of his gold and his plate And his house and his car and his women, The poor man he dreams of his one-roomed estate And his wage-packet short by one shilling The last penny falls through a hole in your jeans, Now ain't that the way when you're down? Just walking in circles for the rest of your life, And feeling so low that your chin scrapes along the ground Ting-a-ling, Ting-a-Ling, the Devil he leans on your bell, The future looks black as before And the sun never shines, the sun never shines on the poor Now some of the people are poor in the purse They don't have the cash at the read And some of the people are crippled and lame They can never stand up true and steady And some of the people are poor in the head Like the simpleton fools that you see But most of the people are poor in the heart It's the worst kind of poor, it's the worst kind of poor you can be Ting-a-ling, Ting-a-Ling, the Devil he leans on your bell, The future looks black as before And the sun never shines, oh the sun never shines on the poor