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What is a Tattooist?

In a Back Street Pit, one might find a Magical character known as the Tattooist.... 
He comes in many shapes, sizes and nationalities, Fat, thin, cosmopolitan and miscellaneous. He is Truth, with a Professors knowledge and black ink beneath his nails, Beauty, with a tailored splattered, once white jacket And the hope of all Artisans, with your arm in hi blood stained claws... 

He can be discovered, caught or found - sometimes, On top of, sliding from, creeping past or ripping off Anything that is female, semi-nude or alcoholic. He likes booze by the quart, liberated virgin flesh - preferably maidens, Tattooed hoodlums, his bed, your woman and fistfuls of Greenbacks... 

He cares not for Credit, drunks, non tippers and his own cigarettes..
Nobody is so slow to rise, yet so quick to make a Buck. When authorities object, he protests with his only weapon - bullshit and Club Certificates. If you're nervous, he's an inconsiderate, sadistic, grinning bastard. When you're a roughie toughie hard case, covered in boot polish tattoos, He just sits there, like the Mafia's Godfather, sneers prettily and adds ten per cent.... 

No one else can cram in his skull, the winners of yesterdays race meetings, A dead cert cure for gangrene, the entire Criminal law, the sickest of jokes, And the medical properties of the anti dot rot potion he's just slopped on your arm. Under his table, he can cram a dead beat battery, a filthy sex book, A jar of pain killers (at a dollar each), packet of rubbers, A wad of blue photos, six broken watches, pictures of the King of Denmark And the local whore with tattooed tits... 

Bikers love him.  Mothers hate him.   His chick just tolerates him. 
The neighbours ignore him and his fantastic tales protect him. You can be an aspiring artist, dreaming of being just like Him. But he'll baffle you with science, plead poverty, produce Association and Birth Certificates And have you heading for Skid Row, after smoking your last cigarette. 

Let's face it.... 
He'll tattoo your old lady, the Preachers daughter, a Gay Libber's posterior Or your old Granny's varicosed boobs. He'll smoke all your Grass, take our last Dime, drink your booze Then expect a Tip - all with a smile on his lecherous face. He'll take your prized possessions, your Relief money And your sweetheart for his works of art - but not credit. He's your Buddy supreme, champion of the lost and luckless. A hard drinking, conniving opponent of Back Alley Scratchers A man alone, the poor man's Rockwell - the Tattooist. 

But, when you crawl into his shop after a day boozing it up, Having been mugged, puked on and bawled out, With your hopes of the future seemingly lying shattered and in ruins around you And on return, have to defraud the Railroad Company and explain the tattoos, He'll mend them all like new with the latest Jap design and a few words.... "Hi there Scabby! Sit down, relax and pass your Smokes."

From the pen of Painless Jeff
Painless Jeff Publications, ITAA Convention, Reno, USA, 1977