Tavern tales

Long John fits the bill
and
has his fill
of rum.

On the run with the tide that turned,
the
sails they are a rising,
Blind Pew
who can see bugger all
decides to put his eyes in.

It’s a life and a half before the
quarter mast
with the sea spray in our faces,
a Pirate dream is what we are
off to far flung foreign places
and underneath the quarter deck
swinging by a rope around his neck
is
the last of the last from a time
that has passed and the last of those
who swung before
his
curses drowned out by the oceanic
roar.

A  skull and bones
a flag
no homes,
but the deep of the
deep blue sea
calls constantly
to me.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.