I held up a bank with a buttered yam.
Should have gone with the battering ram.
The clink was austere.
I was in last year
Rifling the cold bars apace the pacing car-thief.
Nervous in verse,
I shied, averse
To showdowns with pogey-lifers who flaunt stogies.
The lonely mile, etching
‘I love you’ and ‘days left’ over and under numbers.
They let me go
After two months, ho!
My poems caused the suicide rate to spike.