Jesse's Paint Shop

Out on the key

at a paint shop named Crow's

There's an artist named Jesse

With a pin through his nose

He sits on his stool

and works his designs

lost in his thoughts

to the tunes of Rammstein

At the beach and the bay

the dock and the pier

you see works by Jesse

everywhere here

Butterfly wings, looping and flowing

alien faces, teeth and eyes glowing

Dear mother Alice, in memory of

lost to the seaweed out in the gulf

Girlfriends and wives, now past their best

are recorded on forearms

and painted on chests

Now raising their babies

In Venice and Port Charlotte

The girls have tatts too,

from their days as beach harlots

Wanna be cowboys with testosterone threats

spelled out by Jesse

there on their necks

Crosses galore,
thorn rings and thorn roses

they're part of the band
on their bellies and noses

Jesse's own gallery, in stores and in shops

in high concentration

in the IHops

At the beach, in the sand,

in the sweat and the brine

the tattoo creations, they swim and they shine

There isn't some skin

no matter how teeny

that Jesse's not painted

in a bikini

In a black Scorpions tee shirt, his industry grows

and Jesse's the king - he makes it up as he goes

And Jesse's great helper, what makes it all run
is a sharp clear brown liquid
known around here as rum

As it flows through the crowd on the key and in bars
folks think of Jesse
and get into their cars

They come out to Crow's, open 24 hours
and start out with thoughts of a tiny red flower

Then they get almost naked and pass out on cue
and Jesse starts working
with greens and with blues

By the time they awake,
the confederate painter
has painted himself
a huge alligator

It's there on his calf,
right there on her thigh

It must have looked cool
When they were high