by Nick Gisburne
The Barbarous Brigade of Buccaneers
Has pencilled in a winter’s Friday night
For rum and grog and strange, exotic beers.
It’s on: the salty shanties, and the fight.
A dozen crabby pirates, past their best,
Assemble, brains bewildered, blind with booze,
To dance around a dead man’s treasure chest,
Resplendent in their ludicrous tattoos.
Perhaps a smidge too strenuous for some,
The has-been heroes falter on their feet,
But all it takes is one more round of rum
For every soul to stagger down the street.
Ask any, “Will you come?” However far,
However old, they answer, always, “Arrrrr!”
