Sticky Fingers

No maker of goods or wares was he A taker of coin that none can see Just a cad so cool and debonair And a pickpocket extraordinaire He distracts his prey with rhyme and verse And slyly smiles while stealing their purse So eloquently recites out loud Then quickly disappears in the crowd City to city he makes his way To practice his craft from day to day Of his next victim he'll soon descend Then scatter like ashes on the wind Whenever you're walking down the street And ever a chance you too will meet If he was a gun, I'd never cock it And if I was you, I'd check my pocket