A 'Dicky' Seaman Poem by Phil Ward

Going back a year or two,
There was a sailor that I knew,
His name was Tate and what d'you know,
He was a walking picture show.

His name was Tate but not by chance,
And if you stopped to take a glance,
Like many of the people do,
Admire his latest bird tattoo.

Two hundred just upon his arms,
Another twenty on his palms,
They're beak to beak across his chest,
Back and legs you'll find the rest,

They say he's got a goose in flight,
Somewhere hidden out of sight.
An albatross with wings outstretched,
Na, I think that's well farfetched.

When he wears his old string vest,
Aviary! People shout in jest,
In every port he gets one more,
He got a flock in Singapore.

You may think that he's raving mad,
And pictured skin is really sad,
But in the end he has this plan,
He's a very intelligent, astute man.

He'll sell his hide to pay the bill,
Of his impending funeral,
His obsession with ornithology,
Guaranteed his place in the gallery.