needlework
The Tattooist's Tale
Mine is a narrative of woe,
Of how the mighty are brought low,
Descending from renown to shame
Through ego and the lust for fame.
I started young in Potters Bar,
But fast became a West End star
Who worked on Robbie Williams' pecs,
Was shortlisted for Posh and Becks
And – such was my hubristic hope –
In line to decorate the Pope.
Alas, I wrote, while inking in
Some love words on Madonna's skin
(The ghastly memory recurs
Like pain) my squeeze's name, not hers.
So now I only needle losers:
Druggies, dossers, no-marks, boozers.
(Many years ago I decided on impulse to get a tattoo but was sent away for being drunk. Phew.)
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