A short scribble inspired by a close encounter with some Artful Dodger-esque tricksters who took quite the fancy to my deceiving bulging pockets.
The problem with Pickpockets is,
It’s not the things they pick.
It’s the space which they invade,
And the human rights they squish.
It’s your privacy and confidence,
Your faith in humankind.
Heavy, empty pockets,
Violation left behind.
Feeling victimised and targeted,
By stalkers in the night.
It was planned and meditated,
I was kept firmly in sight.
The gadgets and the credit cards,
Replaceable at cost.
But the contacts and the photos,
And the privacy all lost.
The license with my home address,
The keys to lock the door:
Had they picked the other pockets,
They’d have gained a whole lot more.
But the keys were safely hidden,
Beneath tampons, tablets, towels.
And the other pockets filled,
With my Buscopan for bowels.
My phone, they had their eye on,
But so had my friend too.
And as they pressed against me,
My mate and I both knew.
Expletives were expressed,
And my phone squeezed in my palm.
We shouted out to those around,
And quickly raised alarm.
Their scheming had been foiled,
The police were on the hunt.
They pickpocket-ed the wrong girl,
At the wrong time of the month.
My medicines for ‘lady week’,
Had stalled me extra time.
And the stupid poncey pickpockets,
Could not snatch what was mine.
So thank you, Mother Nature,
And the friends who had my back.
And cheers, thieves, for reminding me,
To stock up on Tampax!