Sticky Fingers
No maker of goods or wares was he
A taker of coin that none can see
Just a cad so cool and debonair
And a pickpocket extraordinaire
He distracts his prey with rhyme and verse
And slyly smiles while stealing their purse
So eloquently recites out loud
Then quickly disappears in the crowd
City to city he makes his way
To practice his craft from day to day
Of his next victim he'll soon descend
Then scatter like ashes on the wind
Whenever you're walking down the street
And ever a chance you too will meet
If he was a gun, I'd never cock it
And if I was you, I'd check my pocket
Copyright © Randy Freie | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment