The Tattooist

I was always good at drawing and I’ve always loved my art
I dreamed I’d be tattooing and at last I’ve made a start
My father had no faith in me – he said my future’s grim
But he’ll be blown, ‘cause I have shown
I’m earning more than him.

You may think that I’m peculiar with these doodles on my skin
But I must express my talent and this artist from within
I’ve used myself for practise, though some did go slightly wrong
A tattooed charm upon my palm
Can’t mean I don’t belong.

I’ve seen a lot of clients now, from every walk of life
From the bouncy to the bonkers and the ones who give you strife
One thing they have in common, from the pauper to the posh
Is if they smell, then I’m in hell
Please have a bloody wash!

I’m sure I’ll be tattooing until my dying day
I need money for my jollies, and there’s bills I have to pay
They’ll always want their tramp stamps and that writing on their chest
But I beg of you for something new
Please put me to the test.

I’m so sick of Chinese writing that doesn’t mean a thing
And I tire of etching portraits of some twat who cannot sing
I can see you love your baby – but really, what the heck?
You are insane to have his name
Around your bastard neck.

For years I have been hoping for a rather special piece
I long to be creative – for my passion to release
I yearn for something different and to really feel my flow
Forget the rest, I’ll be the best
And tattoo poems head to toe!

Aiden Bex