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...