Woke up and found a drawing of a dockyard on my neck,
I could still feel the pressure where someone had etched it onto my skin.
I craned and strained and cricked and hiked my neck in front of the mirror,
I could just make out the lobster pots.
I asked my girlfriend to tell me more about it,
She told me it was dull and looked like shit.
I reminded her of the butterfly tattooed on her ankle,
She gave our relationship a month.
Ageing tyres dressed in slimy green gowns,
Prevent my prow from hitting the sides.
Rusty ladders with far too few rungs,
Allow me to clamber up into the dry.
Is this dockyard in my mind? Is it Ramsgate in August?
Was it sketched on my neck as a sign?
I can't read all of it yet but I know there's a dry dock,
I wonder if that's where timber is allowed to dream?
Woke up and found a drawing of a playground on my neck...