The Tattoo

The Man sat morosely behind his desk,
Victim of the seething yellow envelope.
Less threatening blue counterparts hovered nearby.
Feeling suffocated, he suddenly stood,
Discarding the petrified remnants of his egg and toast,
And defiantly strode out.

The man felt plucky walking into the boxy little store,
But was startled to see the shopkeeper
Like an aged Viking, noble and haggard,
His bald head dotted with patches of hair,
Like scattered grasses on a plain,
(His teeth of the same green sanctuary.)
The Man hesitated.
He recalled Geraldo's warning about psycho tattoo artists from hell who actually buy the oh-so-sharp knives advertised on television that no one could ever use but that could cut through a medium-sized building if such a situation arose,
Then resumed his calling.

"How about a tree," the Man asked, and felt the weary look of a man who had encountered too many weirdos to care about the wild whims of the business gentleman.
He shrugged and pulled out the giggling syringe,
Venomous and loathsome in its silver beauty.
The Man felt the tingling first, a numbing,
And then his arm was like permafrost.
The Needle inched its way across his arm
Like a ravenous katydid.
When the Man finally sensed the searing of the tinny instrument,
He felt dizzy, and drunkenly swung his head around
To look at his once naked appendange.
A tree was appearing as if sprung from a seed;
The leaves were like vines on fast-forward,
Drugged with Miracle-Gro,
That twisted and surged across the Man's feeble flesh.
He smiled at its splendor.

When the ordeal was through,
The residual tingling made the Man giddy,
And he rejoiced that his prize was well-concealed
Beneath scads of sensible fitted pinstripes.
Then he returned, grinning and nonchalant,
To his home away from home, the Oval office,
Where secret service men ran at him like rabid dogs
Because he had run away again.