Sammy Dawg, he is ma homie, the tats
he has they tell a story.
Around his back there flows a storm sea,
the ships it casts upon Dawg’s shoulders
are there devoured by blue monsters.
Yes Sammy Dawg ma one and only, his arms
are long and lean and bony, the eye there
has a weary journey on roads track marked and
hoary, on them lives a different story.
O Sammy Dawg ma wounded brother, I’m here
for you and no other, on you is inked the pure
redeemer, he walks across an ocean torso and
there he finds a lot and more so.
“What up ma Dawg!” I feel like saying, but Sammy
Dawg is just not playing, but a story still his tats are
saying, in vivid hues but they’re decaying.
Sammy Dawg he was ma homie, his fists are clenched,
his eyes are lonely; his colors speak with death’s
engravings, “I am a World!” His skins proclaiming.
Sammy Dawg’s, one last mention is written there for my
attention, words that state his new found station, a book
of skin for all the nations.
Now words have failed him, the pictures tell: ma Sammy
Dawg won’t burn in hell.
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