in a shirt from Call of Duty
that could clothe four average men
in the aisle for hair and beauty
he was shoplifting again

so under shirt the contraband
goes soap and gel and wax
by not exactly sleight of hand
but still he clears the racks

to keep the house in big name brands
of shampoo and hairspray
the store detectives understand
and look the other way

since he's no criminal mastermind
public enemy number one
not the tooled-up, violent kind
not Godfather or Don

and not a man born to be bad
or ****** on the skids
he's just an ordinary dad
placating teenage kids

so dressed in clothes from car boot stalls
and charity shop spoils
he's robbing Peter to pay Paul
so they can live like royals

ignoring all the cheaper types
his kids won’t tolerate
stolen goods in one deft swipe
things just evaporate

and there to make his escape good
his wife is parked outside
engine running under hood
the Bonnie to his Clyde

for three more weeks 'til they get
paid
they’ll live under this gun
victims of the daily raid
on bank of dad and mum.

look at him stand, like he’s in charge
shirt of a band, size extra-large
close to the bar, far from the floor
came in his car, came here to score

used to be trim, doesn’t know that
**** being him, **** being fat

scratching his chin, ******* in gut
tried to blend in, anything but
something to prove, probably won’t
making a move, no one says don’t

out on a limb, one he’ll allow
**** being him, up until now

“fancy a dance? don’t tell the wife”
“*******, fat chance - go get a life!”
back to the bar, put out, put down
permanent scar, permanent frown

sometimes a whim favours the bold
**** being him, out in the cold
back to the bin, thoroughly told
**** being him, **** being old.

this dark night's slight moon
casting empty dead shadows
even wolves go hide