Burglars

When you waken with a shudder in the middle of the night
And the fear is like a spider on your skin,
Then the faces at the window, ghastly-gleaming grisly white,
Are the burglars who are trying to come in.

And the burglars in the shadows of the laurels in the park,
With their sacks marked SWAG, half-hidden in the leaves,
They are waiting for the children, they are waiting in the dark,
For the darkness is the proper place for thieves.

Burglars’ eyes behind their burglars’ masks are glittering and clear.
They are thinking of the crunching of the bones,
And the furry, whirry sounds like baby animals you hear
Are the conversations on their mobile phones.

You can feel them as they fumble, you can sense them as they scratch,
As those stripy burglars’ jerseys start to itch,
And the stoppered jars of chloroform for children that they catch
Are all stacked together neatly in the ditch.

Purple strands of skinny cloud are drifting sideways past the moon
And uncertain stars are trying not to shine.
Every burglar, knowing children will be coming very soon,
Licks his blubber lips and mutters, You are mine!

You are coming, little children, in your ones and twos and threes,
You are hurrying because it’s getting late,
You are thinking of your mummies, you are thinking of your teas,
When perhaps you should be thinking of your fate.

For we love you, how we love you, as a tracker loves his tracks,
How we love you as a butcher loves his hook,
How we love you as a stamp-collector loves his penny blacks,
As he sticks them in his stamp collector’s book.

Since it’s useless to cry out and quite impossible to run,
It’s important that you follow my advice:
When a burglar comes to get you, you must shoot him with a gun,
And I guarantee he won’t be coming twice.
 

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