Among the soiled streets of Soho lies hope,
A small shop crammed between Victorian terraces.
Where pastel gelato is overflowing from plastic tubs,
And the golden cones are stacked high.
Drunken natives and naive tourists gather under the faded canopy,
Until the volatile winds pass them by.
Inhaling the sweet scent of dark chocolate sorbet,
Or perhaps the sweet strawberry ice cream.
