This is an original composition inspired by The Canterbury Tales.

Please review, if you don't mind. :)



London in June holds precious memories

In the very front of mind with other sundries.

I think of those fondly as I sit watching

The Yard's petty thieves who've taken to matching.

All except for two who sit on opposite benches,

Glaring as pugnacious armies peering o'er trenches.

'Bobby!' one thief cries, waving his bowler hat;

He's no older than fifteen, poor sprat.

I give my sleeping legs a shake and stand,

Walk 'cross the shady yard with club in hand.

The boy has eyes that twinkle like sapphire,

And his smile seems wicked, and surefire

To make rosy the cheeks of his sweethearts.

'I hope you do not think me odd,' he starts,

'To say a man's pockets hold all of his secrets.'

And so told me what he knew of trinkets.


'I am and happen to be and excellent judge

Of character and a boy who refuses to drudge,

So I use my sleight of hand to learn about

A man; whether or not he likes sauerkraut.

You see a lot can be learned from possessions.

I'll tell you what I conclude from my selections.

Just last week in Cheapside I borrowed

From a man who will ne'er be furloughed.

Don't judge a man by the trousers he's wearing

He'll get paranoid if he catches you staring,

So don't look too long to try and decode'em.

I'd seen him before so I decided to skim

Some tell-all contents from his trousers.

I used my keen hands like a dowser's

Stick to draw up things as I brushed past.

Any real poor man would have known my typecast.

A pocket watch was one thing I found, and was surprising

Because in Cheapside it will cause some fussing.

Two handkerchiefs, tobacco and pipe too.

I analyzed the contents I withdrew,

And concluded the strange man's history.

The man is rich because of the embroidery

On one handkerchief. He may not marry;

His mistress lives alone in semi-poverty.

Her handkerchief is the second one.

It is stained along the edge and has a run,

But all she can give to hope he remembers her.

He has a flat on Bond Street and is a banker:

The tobacco is expensive, straight from the tanker's hold,

The pipe has his monogram all in gold.'

The boy stood up, signaling the end of his tale.

'Wait!' I said, 'but what am I? What to my pockets entail?'

'You're easily tricked, but still a good man,'

Said he, and patted me on the hand.

He thanked me for listening his story

I scratched my head where the hair is hoary.

The boy loped off towards the gate,

Took out the keys, I realized too late,

That the pickpocket had taken my keys

And locked me in the Yard with London's bullies.

I hope you liked it!