Give me a man
With tattoos and lustful lips
And everyone will look at us and say:
Match Made In Hell
That phrase use to mean so much
And now it means so little
But I would do a lot
To drip sweat, as I drink martinis
And fancy things—I simply cannot afford
But a tattooed arm above my head
Lips on lips on lips on lips
Can’t quit.
But I curtsey
Like my
Mama Told Me When I Was Young
Lynyrd Skynard wails
But a man with tattoos
And a bad soul
We will make the music
The night above us
Demands we make
Like an inked vibrating limb.