Drink v. Ink
Young Tom, when sober, plied a skilful trade
Tattooing bold designs on those who paid,
Like stars and flowers, love-birds, arrowed hearts
And cryptic characters from Eastern parts.
In things above, or well below, the waist
He was no censor of the public’s taste;
A proud young breast, the owner running wild,
He’d label ‘Bitter’, its companion, ‘Mild’.
Then, further down, in regions best left *******
Punch in a limerick with no words barred,
Or fox’s brush, half vanished down a hole,
With hounds in hot pursuit towards their goal.
He said: ‘There’s nothing that I’ve not tattooed!’
But lost his job because a pop-star sued −
Her upper thighs did not read ‘¡Viva Che!’
But young Tom’s drunken version, ‘¡Biva! Yay!’
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jerome
Betts would be
pleased to hear them.