Pyrates 'o' the Poop-Deck

Written by Tommy George 
Posted by Homer Lester Teabury


Ye be sailin' into biblical headwinds, Matey
moonin' over that frilly yellow-haired doll
who felled ye in the first place, a-falling
drownin' yer soul in her poisonous squall.
Think ye pussy's love be like the katamite's?
$he knows yer joys, and panders to yer hunger
$he'll have yer jewels in trade for corkin' her bung
for ye be depraved; and she be a monger.

Ye'r better off in a Haitian barracoon,
where the bleedin' air will make ye soon forget
every molecule stirred for her, sacrificed.
Every eel-pie baked in her grizzled man-hole.
Every heat-seekin' gob what busted her crust.

Why, I seen her trawlin' for grogshop pud,
biddin' all comers, "Come, glory yer manhood
with streaks of me womanly blood and mud.
Come on, Sir Ape. I'll make ye giddy when
Ya gets to know me every witch a-way."

Like me, ye must lose your enthusiasm.
So shell us a tub of pistachios, Mate,
and let's watch the chaste kissin' 
she does on first dates.

How quickly yer fine lady falls to her knees!
and dove-like swoons twixt irrumatio's teases,
Princess A-Gaggin', makin' unnatural
strangle-sounds seem the wonted way for woman.

Didn't her love swamp ye to near extinction?
Don't she gaily pass 'round them little deaths
to any candle lights her abject person?
Any swabby stares blind into them eyes?

See her tallyin' souls of the wraiths she's made.
That be her joy: dispatchin' fools to their graves.
Ye wakes up on Mudd's poop-deck, wit' black-burnt pals
in Hell, where ye be slow-roasted by jackals.

Now we be friends, far back as Methuselah
Let me help ye lose yer enthusiasm.
Well ye knows, I'm the salty dog knows yer heart.
God left me right-talented for manly arts.

It's me, ya see, should play that rag-dolly's part.