The Scream.
By P.B. Phillips

Simply climb the ladder, rung by rung.

In through the open window and take the picture from where it hung.

 

Back the way I came, and down to the car.

No need to rush, no need to drive that far.

 

Six years earlier, I did the exact same robbery, from the same Oslo museum.

Same lack of locks, alarms and security guards, never did I see them.

 

Norwegian police force, failed to find me; so lax, way beyond a joke.

No criminal mastermind, just a guy who’s a bit mad and a bit broke.

 

Although I had the picture hung in my flat, the cops they sent, not the best.

In the end I couldn’t sell it, carried it under my arm and gave myself up for arrest.

 

A Hundred and Sixty million dollars the Scream is worth, or so they say.

To me, it just looks like how I felt, each and every day.

 

I was a scallywag, then young footballer, before being a thief, a core celebre.

But eventually I was reduced to stealing the odd pair of socks, just an ordinary run of the mill pleb.

 

At just 57, off to heaven I go, hopefully I’ll meet my hero Edvard Munch.

I hope he has sandwiches, I’m hungry, as I died just before lunch.

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