Flown upon a swift, black sailed vessel
It is crewed by bandits and hunters
Hunting the Tropic of Cancer
But beyond the black sails and skull
Beyond the charisma of the players
By the modern flawed memory
If each of the pirates are orphans
Without a father to guide them
Ruled by hunger, the sea is their mother
With power in their weapons
They trail the great gold ships
Of the Spanish Empire
Hunting for gold and loot, they find it
And after fierce unforgiving combat
The galleon will sink soon
After the treasures are transferred
The crew captured
Ornate and enormous
These Spanish galleons
Light the horizon, afire
Flotsam and jetsam
Slowly dying dreams
As the black ship sails
Escaping yet again
“I never in my life saw men so careless of the morrow; hand to mouth is the only
word that can describe their way of doing; and what with wasted food and sleeping
sentries, though they were bold enough for a brush and be done with it, I could
see their entire unfitness for anything like a prolonged campaign.”
