There’s thieves on every bus and train;
They’ve nicked my nice, new hat again.
Last week they stole a single glove:
That is the sort of thing they love.
They take their own particular care
Of furled umbrellas everywhere
And palm away, as you just curse,
Those coins you thought had made your purse.
They choose the wettest weather, when
They pick on feeble, feckless men
And women. who get all upset
Since, sans umbrella, they get wet.
And in the wintertime, for spite,
Just as the coldest blizzard bites
They whip away your favourite scarf
And, whilst you freeze, they stand and laugh.
They also strike on summer days
By spiriting your stuff away.
When blinding sun shines fiercely down,
Your sunglasses, they’ve gone and found.
You realise what they have done
But always fail to spoil their fun
By recalling their thieving claws
Just as the bus has closed its doors.
You rush and tap the windowpane
The driver’s confidence to gain
But he’s in league with all the thieves:
Speeding away, he ups and leaves.
It couldn’t just be our own fault;
We’re not such daft, forgetful dolts
Who leave things on the train or bus.
It must be thieves; it can’t be us!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem