And we flew the pretty colors of the crossbones and the skull.
And we sailed the Spanish water in the happy days of yore.
We each had a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip.
We chased the goodly merchantmen and laid their ships aboard.
And the paintwork was all splatterdashed with other people's brains.
And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the plank.
You could hear the drowning folk lament the absent chicken coop.
Than dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught us to.
And the genial "Down the middle Jake, and curtsey when she rolls".
The lookout not a looking and his pipe bowl glowing red.
All have since been put a stop to by the naughty Board of Trade.
A little south the sunset in the islands of the blessed.
0 σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου