Tramp Stamp


The times have passed, when ink stained only skin on sun-burned sailors,
exotic natives in far-off lands, white-thighed (Molly) heartbreakers.
Fads come an’ go, trends with the flow, diverse thru conformity.
Come the end of days, your-marks of the Beast prove your debauchery.

Roll-up, roll-up, get your tattoos here,
for less than a monkey scarred for life.
for your hard earned monkey I’ll scar you for life.

Tramp Stamp

Soft satin skin, creaseless and taut, a part of God’s great canvas:
Primitive daubs, trap times of ignorance, more money than sense.
Stiff painted wings, your tat stained back reflects a fallen Angel.
Might as well have written “Dirt cheap whore beggin’ for a facial!”

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS


PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

©4.7.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman

The times have passed, when ink stained skin on salty sun-burned sailors,
God’s canvas – your fingerprint to heaven.
Is vanish.
Don’t bend to sense,
faithful/painful/facial
Chaotic-colour, like a sleeve, trap ignorance and time.


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