I lived a happy life ‘til I was ten years old
When debt landed dad in prison and our country house
Was sold
Lodged with a lady in her London flat so cold
Worked at a good polish factory, labelling jars quite
Dull be told
Goodness only knows
I was a miserable soul
For a time I went to school but then I found a job
As a clerk to a lawyer, oh it made my poor head throb
I failed to be an actor, despite my loud gob
Ended up reporting speeches of the parliamentary mob
Then as everybody knows
I started writing pros
Put my life into my books
Friends and enemies and crooks
Legal bosses of the crop
In “The Old Curiosity Shop”
Fagin in “Oliver Twist”
A factory pal, you get the gist
And although my memory’s quite foggy
Got Scrooge from the grave of Ebenezer Scroggy
My first book was an overnight sensation
But I drove myself too hard to enjoy the agilation
Despite my wealth, my family begged for money
I wrote of it in “Chuzzlewit” which people said was
Funny
Didn’t sell like books before
My family still asked for more
“Little Dorrit” is a tale
About my dad in debtor’s jail
While “Hard Times” tells my life ‘bout
When I tried to leave my wife
“Little Nell’s” here was my poor dear
Departed sister-in-law
And “David Copperfield”, working in a factory
I must confess that that was really me
In my life, felt shamed ‘bout poverty in childhood
Wrote about sadness, suffering and fears
Also wrote about people with funny names
Bumble, Smallweed, Scrooge, Uriah Heep
And Wackford Squeers
Whilst writing “Edwin Drood”
Train crashed in, helped my mood
Still I drove myself on
With readings far across the pond
Died before I wrote Drood’s end
Something drove me ‘round the bend
So Dickens, take a dickens, take a bow
And Heaven knows
I’m miserable now
