They'll steal your final quarter
When you need to make a call.
They'll steal your glass slippers
When you're going to the ball.
They'll steal your favourite shirt
That matches your favourite vest.
They'll even steal your heart meds
As you're grabbing for your chest.
They'll steal your tube of sunscreen
On a scorching, hellish day.
They'll even steal your glasses
When you look the other way.
They'll steal your tire iron,
And at some point later on,
As you scramble to change a flatty,
You will notice that it's gone.
I'm fed up and I'm angry.
I've had it through and through.
So I better hide this poem,
Before they steal it, too.