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It was planned as a heist,
as a scam,
our main aim the blatant embracing of peace
in public buildings and corporation grounds.
And what's more, to consume that tranquility on site:
relaxing amid run-of-the-mill crowds and lazy attendants
Cat-nap burglars, sleep-stealers,
forty-wink lifters, we planned to go in
and simply by sidling up to a bench in a corner,
stretching out, closing eyes, dozing
unconscious we'd regain what's naturally ours.
At Durham Cathedral I'd
settled beside some robber prince
ensconced in pomp, made a double bed
of his raised tomb, and thanks to my camouflage keks
spent a good half-hour cloistered in kip,
before the bishop's censer clanked me awake.
Then there was Sally's
Chesterfield snoozing
in the Members-Only room, Royal Winchester Golf Club;
and Dexter's much applauded stage-nap
at the first night of Opera North's new Sleeping Beauty.
In these, the first forays
of what became The League Of Stolen Zeds, our plans
ran smoothly as Night Nurse from the cap.
Between the three of us we'd notched up,
bagged, an hour of publicly illicit sleep
without a hitch. The men at the front desk,
the porters, Security, they were no match.
We changed tack.
We let the press come licking
at our heels,
revealed the plans of our next strike,
daring the public to catch us napping.
Then in studios stuffy with audience and lights,
we took our places on soft settee
facing the steady soporific gaze
of Lorraine or Trisha or Richard or Judy.
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