SWASHBUCKLER

A-vast me hardies,
on galleon seas,
stoically trundling past forbidden lands,
sip the greedy poison of our fruit
intoxicated still - with thorny lute.
Behold, the witness plunder ruin
delving bony fingers
onto sweet dragoon
thrust deep into yon maiden breast,
hording her jewel encrusted chest.

Hi-jo!
A pox – what grows before…
Tis land,
that ripening familiar whore -
her tenacious craggy bluff
doth stretch proud into the sea,
making prisoner of all but thee.
Her gaping lips,
swallow port’s mouth
to lull these motley gadabouts
breeding, feeding carousing men,
beckoning the scullery wench,
and then,
again, cast off and kept afloat,
in the billowy sail of her petticoats.

We, to whom no home belongs,
extol the lonely praises
in salty songs,
to hearth and girl
an eternal pledge,
spends the maiden
from her chaste ledge.
Until at last there seems no more,
that can willingly appease -
a-vast, me hardies,
on galleon seas.