troubadours

I__ a maker of ballads right prettyI write them right here in the streetYou can buy them all over the cityyours for a penny a sheetI__ a word pecker out of the printersout of the dens of Gin LaneI__l write up a scene on a counter- confessions and sins in the main, boysconfessions and sins in the mainThen you__l find me in Madame Geneva__keeping the demons at bayThere__ nothing like gin for drowning them inbut they__l always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging dayThey come rattling over the cobblesthey sit on their coffins of blackSome are struck dumb, some gabbletop-heavy on brandy or sackThe pews are all full of fine fellowsand the hawker has set up her shopAs they__e turning them off at the gallowsshe__l be selling right under the drop, boysselling right under the dropThen you__l find me in Madame Geneva__keeping the demons at bayThere__ nothing like gin for drowning them inbut they__l always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day