Robbin' the Salvation Army. . .
Jam my hands into the crock.
Mitts on dough, I expunge the money;
The robbed ringer calls the cops.

The bills nestle in my belt;
I'm fleeing--coast is clear,
I am thinkin', but I'm followed
By the ringer, with three hollow
Socks filled with rocks* he whips at me,
Smack me 'side the head--I'm dazed.
But instead of further hittin' me,
He falls to his knees and prays.

[Salvation Army band interlude]

Rock-rapped headache's now splittin' me,
And ears are startin' to ring.
But I'm able to focus my eyes,
And I spy--the guy's got bling.

He is bent in supplication,
Kneeling--doesn't feel
My hand steal into his pocket,
Wrest a small rock out; I'll hock it.

Hockin' gem "found"; at business three
Balls dangle above the shop.
"Cubic zirconia," they tell me,
"For this rock, three--four bucks, tops."