In the earliest days of my shoplifting career,
you could safely say i was filled with fear.
it was nail biting work from the very start,
but several quick sucesses soon gave me heart.
after a while i could pick or nick or steal,
some shirts some trousers and a few lps.
no-one ever stopped me, they didn't seem to care.
it sometimes seemed to me that there was no-one there.
Then a fine summers day my mates and me,
set off down the westend on our usual spree.
things were as normal for an hour or so,
then my nimble hands were a bit too slow.
two store detectives made a fast approach,
one grabbed my jacket (you're nicked!)
the other grabbed my throat.
so they caught me at last, one said with joy:
"you'll have to do some time, my light fingered boy!"
If only i'd remembered my common sense,
they captured me red-handed with evidence.
if i go to the manager and say i'm sorry,
maybe he'll forgive me for my youthful folly.
But what will me social worker say,
if i don't come home today?
he'll give me a clout!
what if they don't let me out?
i told him i'm on me own!
don't they understand?
i'm from a broken home!
I'll tell them i'm the product of a broken home,
and i always went out on my own.
was it too late to say i'd pay,
and i'll never steal again 'till the end of my days?
because i have no friends to call as such,
money and posessions i did not have much,
so i started to steal in order to get by.
the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.
deceives the eye the eye the eye...