Stealing Coins from Mum’s Handbag

I steal coins from Mum’s handbag.

Unclasp the clasps, fish for the
metallic fish-scaled purse, unsnap
the magnetic snaps.

I need the money.
It’s for video games and lollies.
40 cents a credit
or three for a
dollar.

I need to play Crude Buster.
It’s this super rad game where you are one of these
two massive bodybuilding punk brothers who bash
the fucking shit of everyone in New York City
while wearing wraparound shades.

You can hit dudes with iron bars, throw cars at them:
oh,
and I’m pretty sure you fight this little evil gnome
Santa who throws grenades
and syringes at you that get stuck in your head.

Two-dollar coins just came out but they haven’t
phased out the green paper notes with the
merinos and wheat on them yet.
Either way—the machines don’t accept them
(although for two bucks you can buy
a paper bag the size of your head stuffed with
Mates—bits of chocolate covered caramel
that glue your teeth together and tear
out your fillings).

I’ve got these cool shoes called Kangaroos, coz
they’ve got marsupial pouches in the tongues
and on the sides.
When you jam the pouches full
of silver and gold coins they
jab into your feet.
And, let me tell you—
it’s quite painful and tiring to walk all
the way down to the one-stop-shop
with your feet weighed
down with precious metals.

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