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