In the earliest days of my shoplifting career, You could safely say i was filled with fear. It was nail biting work from the very start, But several quick sucesses soon gave me heart. After a while i could pick or nick or steal, Some shirts some trousers and a few lps. No-one ever stopped me, they didn't seem to care. It sometimes seemed to me that there was no-one there. Then a fine summers day my mates and me, Set off down the westend on our usual spree. Things were as normal for an hour or so, Then my nimble hands were a bit too slow. Two store detectives made a fast approach, One grabbed my jacket (you're nicked!) The other grabbed my throat. So they caught me at last, one said with joy: "you'll have to do some time, my light fingered boy!" If only i'd remembered my common sense, They captured me red-handed with evidence. If i go to the manager and say i'm sorry, Maybe he'll forgive me for my youthful folly. But what will me social worker say, If i don't come home today? He'll give me a clout! What if they don't let me out? I told him i'm on me own! Don't they understand? I'm from a broken home! I'll tell them i'm the product of a broken home, And i always went out on my own. Was it too late to say i'd pay, And i'll never steal again 'till the end of my days? Because i have no friends to call as such, Money and posessions i did not have much, So i started to steal in order to get by. The quickness of the hand deceives the eye. Deceives the eye the eye the eye...