by Gaurika Mehrotra aged 12

The watchman was snoring,
the bank was in trouble,
the robbers were pouring
money like it was rubble.
Not a word would they mumble
while keeping the cash,
for if they would stumble,
it would all fall down in a ‘craaash!’
After robbing the bank.
They drove down the street,
fifty larks in their van,
allowing themselves a treat,
served hot, straight from a pan.
They were all haggard and tired,
but it was a pity,
as the next day the watchman was fired!

The Poetry Zone

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