Sunday, August 19, 2012

In Queen Anne's Service

it was just a junk,
a ride upon a trinket merchant
that carried me farther
down the coast

but farther off
beyond the shelf
i'd see the flags
proudly cutting wind

fourty eight cannons
i counted
and sails that spoke
of valiant triumph

inevitable, i suppose,
i left the forgotten
for the glory of Queen Anne
and the reach of greater depths

but a scoundrel, cannot be hidden
in the ranks of the proven
and a flogging here, with
a brig or two below
sealed my commission

i did half of what they said
and some of what they didn't
but little care is that
to those who maroon mistakes

but now i've felt the deep
that swallow the tales
and numbed to the
sting of nine, and

i'll not go back to
trinkets of tin
nor kiss the ass
that blossoms the chest
of the often honoured

i'll wait for the black flag
to flank the starboard
and the Master's call
to arms and station

and when next i see Queen Anne
she'll tremble at my hanging
and shiver to the wind-blown lies
of betrayal and dishonour

then, will victory be mine
and never forgotten