First tattoo
I used to be shy, wild-eyed, a little bit sneaky,Couldn’t keep a secret, my lips were leaky.But when I turned twenty-two, I knew what just to do—Headed to Frank’s tattoo, down near the bayou.
First of the sessions, ink on my skin,We took a break, stepped out in the wind.On Waters Street, I heard a voice low,A stranger’s confession—HoBo Joe.
What started as a man just down on his luck,Needing a buck, turned into something that stuck.Sad and blue, in another man’s shoes,Through his broken tears, the words came—beers and still missing you.
I ain’t the type to eavesdrop or pry,But the pain in his voice, it made me sigh.A proud father’s story, now torn and tattered,Every word he spoke… it damn sure mattered.
The price you pay to play the game,May not bring you the sweetest fame.Life’s not paid in gold or dollars—It’s weighed in the choices that we’ve made,And the hearts we save or the bridges we’ve laid.
I couldn’t see his eyes, but I felt his cries,Like the sound of a man who no longer tries.Gin on his breath, but truth in his tone,Warning a friend not to end up alone.
What I overheard in that short confession,Was a soul worn down by life’s hard lessons.And I learned more that day than I’d planned to,While the ink still dried in my first tattoo.
We all think we’re fine, ‘til the line gets crossed,A single bad choice, and everything’s lost.So maybe tonight, let someone else drive,So more of us make it home alive.
Frank took the needle, inked behind my ear,The letters “D.D.”—to keep my mind clear.Now every time that I hear a cheer,I remember HoBo Joe, and the lesson I hold dear.
The price you pay to play the game,Ain’t always fortune, it ain’t always fame.Life’s worth more than a drunken high—Think before you take that drive,If you still want to see tomorrow’s sunrise.
First of the sessions, ink on my skin,We took a break, stepped out in the wind.On Waters Street, I heard a voice low,A stranger’s confession—HoBo Joe.
What started as a man just down on his luck,Needing a buck, turned into something that stuck.Sad and blue, in another man’s shoes,Through his broken tears, the words came—beers and still missing you.
I ain’t the type to eavesdrop or pry,But the pain in his voice, it made me sigh.A proud father’s story, now torn and tattered,Every word he spoke… it damn sure mattered.
The price you pay to play the game,May not bring you the sweetest fame.Life’s not paid in gold or dollars—It’s weighed in the choices that we’ve made,And the hearts we save or the bridges we’ve laid.
I couldn’t see his eyes, but I felt his cries,Like the sound of a man who no longer tries.Gin on his breath, but truth in his tone,Warning a friend not to end up alone.
What I overheard in that short confession,Was a soul worn down by life’s hard lessons.And I learned more that day than I’d planned to,While the ink still dried in my first tattoo.
We all think we’re fine, ‘til the line gets crossed,A single bad choice, and everything’s lost.So maybe tonight, let someone else drive,So more of us make it home alive.
Frank took the needle, inked behind my ear,The letters “D.D.”—to keep my mind clear.Now every time that I hear a cheer,I remember HoBo Joe, and the lesson I hold dear.
The price you pay to play the game,Ain’t always fortune, it ain’t always fame.Life’s worth more than a drunken high—Think before you take that drive,If you still want to see tomorrow’s sunrise.