the old thief knew his trade.
a knife, a shadow, a hand,
a singular act of taking, a direct demand.
a emptiness in the pocket, a lesson sharp and plain,
a villain you could name and curse in the cold and rain.

but progress is a polished art, a calculated climb,
to steal not just the coin, but the seller, and the time.

the new thief wears a brighter face, a reassuring name,
his promise is a firewall, his product is a claim,
“let us hold what you have built, we’ll keep it safe and sound,
your future is a fragile thing, in our vaults, it must be bound.”

we traded fear for paperwork, the knife for a gentle pen,
to sign away the thousand days, again, and then, again.

the scam is not the taking of the treasure from your chest,
it is the gentle harnessing of your eternal quest.
it is the mortgage on the sunrise, the interest on the breath,
the trading of your living hours for a safer, slower death.

they do not want the contents, the simple, rusted loot,
they want the mine, the miner, and the everlasting root.

so build your life upon their plan, a comfortable, warm cell,
while someone from their network ensures it’s marketed so well.
they’ll safeguard every single dream inside their gilded slot,
the greatest scam is not the theft,
it’s making you forget what you have not.