Ballad of Skybound Thieves

In Stockholm town when morning broke,

The sun rose clean and high,

But shadows moved through Västberga—

And strangers claimed the sky.

A chopper cut the stillness cold,

Its blades a howling roar,

While in its belly, men in masks

Prepared their perfect score.

With blueprints stolen weeks before

And bribes in silence paid,

They soared beyond the city’s edge,

Their daring plan well-laid.

The cash depot lay down below,

A fortress built with pride,

Yet concrete walls and steel alarms

Could not resist this ride.

They landed hard upon the roof

And smashed the glassy dome.

Explosives cracked like thunderclaps—

The thieves had come for home.

No soul inside could intervene,

No call could reach the law—

For spike strips blocked the armored cars

And fear replaced all awe.

The cops arrived and stared above,

But found they couldn’t rise.

A warning flared from shadows near:

“There’s bombs beneath your skies.”

A decoy here, a rumor there—

Each step a grand mislead.

The robbers worked with surgeon’s hands,

Not bound by fear or greed.

Beneath the hum of rotor blades,

They filled their sacks with gold,

With cash in crowns and foreign notes—

A sum both vast and bold.

Then like a ghost they vanished quick,

A blur against the blue,

And left behind a nation stunned,

Its watchdogs overdue.

The chopper found, abandoned bare,

In woods so dark and deep—

But none who flew it stayed behind

Their secrets still to keep.

The mastermind? A question mark.

The motive? Clear as day.

But names were whispered, masks removed,

And few would get away.

A trial came, and prison terms,

Yet much remains unclaimed.

The fortune lost in silent vaults

Still echoes, unproclaimed.

And so this tale in Sweden’s lore

Refuses now to rest—

Of how some men took to the skies

And robbed a nation's chest.