When robbing a bank, there’s so much that’s been done
like black balaclavas, or toting a gun.
I’m sure you’ll agree with me, too, when I say
that stockings on heads are so very passé.
We aren’t in the twentieth century now;
we need to progress, and I think I know how.
I’ve sized up disguises to sneak in unseen
and think I can learn from the US Marine.
For camouflage, squaddies dissemble with sprigs
of birch, beech or blackthorn; and just a few twigs
or boughs of white poplar will give me carte blanche
to root through the bucks in the Manchester branch.
It’s better than tights or a mask and a wig;
my fir-suit is perfect, and no-one will twig.
The old-fashioned robbers were missing some tricks:
they stuck to their guns, but I’ll stick to my sticks.
And I once I’m away, everything will go fine;
I’ll head for the forest, and pose as a pine.
The cash’ll be stashed and I’ll blend in with ease,
for no-one will notice the wood for the trees.