Location: the waves, the ocean

Hoist the sails, raise yer bloody goblets, ahoy & onward me laddies!

Monday, June 19, 2006

O for a Draught of Vintage!

Aye, aye, laddies all, o for a draught of vintage! Gather ye round the mast & fall, o for a draught of vintage! Me parrot be drunk & slurring his caws, o for a draught of vintage! To piss oneself be not a flaw, o for a draught of vintage! Me breaches be soiled & soggied withal, o for a draught of vintage! So ready yr scapboards & ready yr draw, o for a draught of vintage!

Lads, what for it if yr cap'n writes a ditty here & there? 'Tis a cap'n's prerogative, aye? & what for it if yr cap'n soiled 'is trainers? 'Tis a cruel life 'pon the waves, lads, & yr cap'n cares not for trivial matters, nay. Drink, then, as yr cap'n has, drink a draught of vintage & sleep yr cursed somnolence, & may ye walk o'erboard in yr somnambulation to spare me the plank. The plank, such a thing, drawn o'er heavy salt-arm & briny depths. The plank! The plank!


Anonymous the bo'son said...

Nary a boatswain there be with trousers unbesmirched with the briny effluvium of the man o' the sea. 'Tis not for the bo'son to clutter up the laundry casks in the hold, and the piquant airs which from 'is arse arise mingle playfully with the cry of 'is shryll whistle, an eternally wakeful concoction o' the senses for crew and cap'n alike.

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