A New Song: The Man of a Thousand Tattoos
All his baby mama has is flip-flops
I could tell you that I wrote this after reading about the alleged comedian Pete Davidson’s having spent $200K for laser surgery to remove some of his over-100 mostly hideous tattoos, but such was not the case. I wrote the lyrics in Malta this past January, and then the music on getting home to Ham.
There exists a guide to Pete’s gorgeous body art, which evokes the inside front cover of an ADHD middle-schooler’s notebook,
I can’t imagine what Ms. Kardashian saw in him. (Or what one could see in Ms. Kardashian, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.)
Your first tats up, and down your legs and forehead and your neck,
were bought with Sally’s welfare checks. That sucks, but what the heck
The man of a thousand tattoos is wearing Nike’s latest shoes
All his baby mama has is flip-flops
A fella’s skin is his alone, to do with as he chooses
To question him’s to ask for it. Hence poor Sally’s bruises
One advertises KFC, another Taco Bell
If you can land the Walmart gig, you’ll be doing well
Just one of Sally’s kids in his. He’s forgotten which
Instead of food, he buys tattoos. Hay, deal with it, bitch.
That may be the ugliest ink I’ve ever seen. It’s like he treated the tattoo parlors like a smorgasbord: “I’ll have one of those, and one of those, and . . .” If there’s any sort of unifying theme here, I’m sure not seeing it. Just completely random images.
Poor dear heart. For some reason this came to mind:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart.[d] Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
No thing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Who knows? Glad I'm not Pete