No one knows my real name

But rather legacy of my work

Raking a lock and covering tracks are a way to hazy fame

Every time I borrowed

I left them scratching heads

But always left a needle and a thread to follow

Like a woven parachute

Or perhaps a quilt

A cloak made of patchwork was but my trademark suit

A casual crime with a taste of wine

Is no big leap for me

Unless you count the turn of rope

To barely even a thread

As skylights shatter and blood would spatter

A fear, my heart would clench

My fall would leave a legend

In a patchwork pile, wretched