The Big Job by Ian Lewis Copestick

Brit Grit, Ian Copestick, Poetry

The Big Job

Well, I’ve got my gang
I’ve got my sawn off
I’ve got my plans
They’re all drawn up
I know the day
I know the time
When the benefits are paid
When the money arrives
We’ve got a van we stole
About a month ago
Hidden in a lock up
That nobody knows
The chassis number has
Been ground away
Now it cones around
It’s our pay day
We’ve got a Merc, a B.M.W.
A Golf G.T.I.
If it comes on top
We’ve got to fly
You gotta keep every
Piece screwed down
You wouldn’t believe the
Grasses in this town
Every guy who supplies
You with a motor
You can’t let them know
What it’s gonna be used for
Or else he’s giving it the big
man in all the pubs
And you might as well
Just give up.
All the stress builds and builds
Too much and it can make you ill
I can’t let my plans screw up
Spent too long planning this job
I can’t take another stretch inside
I’d top myself first, just from pride
My wife would disown me too
By the time I got out
The kids would be leaving school
I can’t let this job go wrong
I’m the big man, I gotta be strong

Well, today’s the day
My bowels are loose
I’ve got the shooters
And the boiler suits
The ski masks and latex gloves
Are in the B.M.’s boot
I don’t want to, but if
I have to I’ll shoot.

Now it’s 12 hours later
And I’m on the run
Dumped the boiler suits, ski
Masks and most of the guns
The Golf G.T.I., well
It just broke down
There’s two security guards
In the hospital down town
I don’t dare think about
My missus and kids
I don’t want to think about
What we just did
When shotgun pellets
Hit human skin
The blood and flesh flies
Your Head it spins
I know the pigs are
Hot on my trail
I can’t face another
10 years in jail
I put the sawn off
Shotgun to my lips
I hear a police loud hailer
And my finger slips