as my head grows tired

wicked thoughts persist

my handkerchief’s been stolen

by Oliver Twist, such grueling times

though we both know,

more gruel for the youngster

the farther he’ll go,

and what petty crimes

the slip of the tongue

but why dear boy, do you continue to run?

I’ve asked you first, now answer

me? It’s for my health, and body you see,

nobody likes a little cunt

nobody cares for the likes of us

so hand it over, my handkerchief? No

my boy, you’re not a thief,

I knew that then, like I know now

your common and good

as good allows,

what I request, you cannot see

it grows within both you and me

those wicked thoughts, hand them over

my head’s now clear, fine and sober

and promise this, all right you first?

no this is not me at my worst,

so why don’t I? well why don’t you?

it’s yours to keep, yes that will do,

you’re right, perhaps I couldn’t see

the horror that in my defeat

is pure of heart, is yours is mine

both petty thieves in our own time