Heist

Midnight cloaks the city’s quiet streets,
A whispered plan, a silent crew of thieves,
They glide like shadows 'cross the wet pavement,
Their eyes fixed on the vault’s impregnable weave.

The lorry idles, engine low—a growl,
A getaway tucked beneath the neon glow,
While inside, the tumblers click, a soft prowl,
As diamonds sigh and copper coins bestow.

A breath held tight, the alarm’s mute sigh,
Then footsteps fade into the dawning grey,
The loot secured, they vanish, nigh
As mist that lifts when night gives way to day.

No trumpets blare, no herald’s call,
Just the quiet thrum of a job well done—
In Britain’s rain‑slick alleys, they stand tall,
Masters of the heist, beneath the waning moon.