Delusions

If ye think fancy yerself a pirate musician, aye, I'll have a quarrel with that, lads. A challenge, aye, a challenge to any who would think themselves capable of matching Dagger ditty for ditty. Ye bespectacled, tweed-wearing, marble throated, overproduced, prancy little posturers need not answer lest ye meet the hook, but I fancy there be a pirate tune or two out there I've not set me ears 'pon nor heard me parrot sing in her mellifluous & euphonic manner. A ditty for a cap'n, then...

Mine Ears've Heard the Horror

Lads, a good morn to ye, aye, but a raucous one here aboard me brigate, for a now indisposed matie brought to me attention the existence of a band of louts presuming to write pirate ditties with no eye for accuracy, lads. Aye, we speak of misguided youth what'll co-opt a shanty as soon as eat a Big Mac, laddies, & these miscreants, the decemberists, what's more, these miscreants lads grate 'pon the very ears they do like the curdling scream of a norwhale! For Christ's sake, lads, put yer blasted instruments to the deck, & ye who sings, stop up yer throat with a sock, lad, for ye've the very voice of a dying goose. Jesus, lads, what an affront to an honest pirate such filth proves to be! I'll to New England, aye, or California, or wherever needs be visited & there indeed I'll show ye a shanty, a ditty of the Golden Era or a bawdish tune to fit these modern times, aye. There be some verity in the godawful sounds of such a band, lads, for as ye know, Rogers 'isself, along with the likes of Blackbeard, carried in tow a three piece ensemble whose very purpose it was to psychologically torment opponents with dissonant & chaotic blasts of trumpet, drum & string, all out of tune, out of sorts, aye, a horrid assault on the auditory system lads. Yer cap'n wagers the same of these vascillating imposters, aye. Me rage at hearing me own music make a mockery of makes me hasten me brigate ashore, where me brandy awaits & me Elanore's abiding hand may guide me, aye, however briefly, afore I find myself kneedeep in blood again, in another cove, the brilliant sun shining 'pon me argent blade, which will plunge, lads, straightway where needs be, savvy. Ditty that, ye pesky posturing bafoons, ye degenerate thieves. Be there nothin' sacred, lads? Aye, & so be it, for me hook knows nothing of value or judgement.

Restorative

Aye laddies a long while it's been since me sat in earnest to relay the various & sundry details of me time asea. The tonic of horizon-line waters can be damning to a pirate, aye, & make 'im idle as a viking at that. Pushed into troublesome & sordid bouts with kidney stones, aye, & a man's wits turn not to the page, lads, but to the finer art of withholding bloody murder at the sight of 'is own yella piss. & aye, we've turned now from southern climes & rallied towards the quaint bays of New England, lads, where in the Golden Era (1701-1720) there fluorished any number of ports wherein a pirate could find repast & repose with politicos, aye, from Manhattan to Providence & beyond, verily. These days the welcome is harder fought, lads, & me ensigns be those of a merchant vessel for the time being. Our stocks be low, though, lads, & traded we have the majority of our finer items, in favor of whiling the time with rum & song. Aye, we came upon a school of wholphins in our travels, lads, that nestled fine alongside a man, indeed, comparably to a porpoise I might add. Tide & wave as far as a good eye can visage, lads, & no gentle company at that. Methinks betimes the life of a pirate be savagely inhuman, lads, ere the evenin' rolls round & me be enchanted all anew of it. Aye, the dirth & dirge of steady drink lads, when it be mornin' & the bright & brilliant sun be blindin' ye through yer cabin glasspiece as ye rise, aye, rise & walk from yer patched parrot to greet yer crew. Dear lord, the African rum stays with ye & finds its only combatant in either fine port or Spanish brandy, aye, lads, mark ye these words of mine. Me time away 'as served me to a poncie, lads, & ere I find meself begarbed in feathers & gowns methinks it wise to sully me blade with the ole crimson aye. Me good eye can't focus on such as an argent & unspotted blade, lads -- it be a tale of woe & depravation to hold a tool divided of its purpose. To New England then, lads, & to the ivy walls wherein a bounty of plenty awaits.

Aye & me Kidney Stones too

'Tis true lads, I be passing the wee stones in the midst of me greatest & most epic bender to date, aye. To the North country! I'll cache the blood in pint jars for a Viking's repast!

Pist, laddies

Aye, pist I be lads, & strectched 'pon a bender as a redbeard 'pon a scythe...

Thy Scabrous Cries

Again, laddies, me apologies precede me diatribe, aye, for where Hjort posts 'is flaming retardations, there I must address myself post haste, as it be unbefitting for a pirate to take the befuddlingly tangential insults of a viking lad. Indeed, if there be a code unwrit, lads, for a pirate of the high seas, it be stressed foremost that no such advance shall go unavenged, & here let it be said, lads, that me sword be drawn, me scabbard empty, me parrot hopped up on rum & methamphetamines, aye, & we be prepared for reckoning indeed. Aye, such shall be our fury that the Northern seas shall be awash in orange flame, aye, for so dense shall the water's surface be with the bodies of slain vikings that a fire will surely catch with a like ease to the cuyahoga, aye, in the eighties of yore. A wee starfish jumped aboard to tell me the tale, lads, & me skin seemed ashiver. & no, in that architecture of odium resides that imperiled king of sophistry, Hjord, who shall meet me blade forthwith, whose house I shall deconstruct swiftly & dispatch of with flame, with hook, with rancor unparalleled. Aye, methinks it time for this conversation to find its abrupt end, lads, & for yer cap'n to tend to other matters in his diary of the seas, as it were. Aye, the life of a pirate be riddled with like savagery, but myriad be its outgrowths, lads, & to keep a tight focus on one petty viking for so considerable a time be unbecoming for a cap'n, aye, such as Ahab to 'is leviathan. That said, me sword be drawn...

Hjord, ye Petulant, Scabrous Dog

Hjord again defiles me post, as such a recreant misuse of tissue & organ is prone to do, laddies. For beneath 'is horned helmet, aye, & under the scab of a red beard he wears about 'is apish visage, there be naught but a wee shadow of a man, aye, one enveloped in myth largely due to the sad reality of 'is day to day life, lads. For what sadder reality be there but that of a Viking? A people once glorious, aye, I'll admit it, but now defiled, defamed, made weak by time & tide, cowering miscreants whose deeds be those of adolescence, as frivolous & as empty of impact. Aye, Vikings be a lesson unto as all, lads, that yer rhetoric be naught but a mosquiot bite when yer sword be drawn. Aye, a promise, Hjord, I'll dispatch of ye, & upwards to the Great Hall or downwards to Davy Jones' Locker, I care not where goes yer soul, but I assure ye of this: Dagger'll piss 'pon yer bloody corpse, aye, & defecate promptly into yer blasted antiquarian helmet! Ye be naught but a tick 'pon me hide, lad, who feeds not on me blood, but 'pon 'is own tumid hubris. Ye'll to the ocean's bed soon enough, Hjord, aye, or me name be not Henry Dagger.