My momentum quickens to a run,

Concealed behind furs from the rays of the sun.

I flicker into life towards a quiet house,

My step almost as quiet as a scampering mouse.

The house seemed dingy drained of life,

A window easy to open with the insertion of a knife.

The living room at least was of adequate size,

Elaborate curtains fastened with ties.

Silver spoons, candlesticks, my face turned to a grin,

Toasting myself I down a glass of fiery gin.

Filling a sack with peoples possessions,

I slip out quietly onto open roads.

A barn seems an ideal place for my hoard,

My stash hidden away behind a broken board.

Police begin a search but find no trace,

Of the mysterious burglar with no face.

With no witnesses or ant clues,

I drift away with my loot and tools.

Across dewy fields of planted rye,

Man with no face sneaks quietly by.