An Irish peasant boy escaped prison once, his name was slow and swift
He came out okay, a couple of inks
Yet not an Italian bride was he made
Rose tattoo for him
In his search for Irish souls
Bounded by his honesty
Call me one last eve
In the birch trees Russian mold and
An Irish corner and fair well for you
In a row of tattoos
In a row of tattoos
Evenings under hue