Snatch

Snatch

In the back‑streets of a city that never sleeps,
where the lamplight flickers like a candle in a forge,
the word “snatch” drips through the alleys—
a hiss of steel, a flash of flash‑bulb, a quick‑step.

It is the breath of a heist that’s filed in a journal of chance,
the colour of a coin that turns into a flash paper,
the slashing left behind by fingers that gloss over the door.

An absurd dance, a mad dash of hearts in solitude,
where the villain’s laugh rises like an opera in the pub,
and the hero’s eyes are scarred with a faint but fierce light.

You can taste it in the clatter of a tweed‑clad collar,
the daring thrill, a fleeting kiss with fate.
It’s a borrowed beat, a stolen line from the tape,
a paperback story, a dark tale of a scapegoat.

The name “snatch” glows like neon on a sign,
ready to pull at the soul of the ignorant,
and the whisper of it—”We’ll snatch this opp”—
is whispered like a secret between lovers on the lips of a spy.

So here we sit, held back by the throbbing rhythm,
the world tipping in zones of danger, bravery,
with a promise that whatever the future will borrow,
we’ll snatch it, and you’ll still be the brightest amongst them.