All shovels must be destroyed
Two sets of clothes
So one can be burned after the action.
Knives will be broken off
Melted down and once again burned.
Anything connecting us to the events
Will be placed in a locker at the city station
To which only I have the key.
I wear riding gloves
But surgical ones beneath.
We spin the sad story of a lost treasure
The simple tales are the most effective.
What child can resist your crocodile tears?
The wind screams across the moor
And the game begins.