Thread: One Night In Esarn (A Pirate's Tale)

Ahoy, ye scurvy dogs, ye!
Sit a spell and prick yer ears, fer I have a terrible tale to tell ye...
'Twas a dark and stormy night. The wind did shake the sails and the gulls did cry mercy from the storm. My brigantine, the 'Wanton Harlot' did make port at a safe harbour, and the lads and me made for the local tavern, wherein to get our land-legs. And then get legless. (Easier fer Peg-Leg Pete, it has to be said..) Anyway, after a feast of bread and ham, and a good many ales, we headed out to find some local wenches fer to do our bidding...

At our first port of call we met a buxom lass with a slightly-built mermaid of a friend, but wishing to partake of further ales we ventured forth to another, almost identical tavern next door, whereupon we met another buxom lass with another slightly-built mermaid. (Or was it a land-lubber's trick? I am still scratching my head, which is a real bitch when you've got a hook fer a hand..)

As we made our way out, a lighthouse of many colours did catch my eye, and my companions did drink of the house brew, and did catch the wandering eye of two ladies, but alas, they were much too shy to be entertained by the likes of us. Ruffians we may be, but gentlemen of the seas, no less! So, not partaking of the delights on offer we rounded the corner only to find the beckoning arms of a house called 'The Beckoning Arms.' A dancer who had foregone the usual trappings of wearing clothes on her top half, was treating the crew to a rollicking, frolicking good time. Ahhh, mateys, if only we'd had merriment like this on our trip 'round the horn...

On our fourth and fifth tavern, we chanced upon a busty, but man-faced lassie, who took a shine to my matey and he did stay with her, to no great satisfaction, and, it must be said, some confusion on his part. We decided to drown our sorrows back at one of the identical pubs I mentioned to ye earlier. Now, as this was almost 3 bells, my last surviving matey was in want of some female company, to share his bunk, at least till high-tide..

A busy woman called 'Mama Sarn' agreed that my shipmate could take the slightly built friend back to his quarters fer a jolly rogering, and that my good self and the busty friend should come along for drinking and good company. But, when we docked at his lodgings he was nowhere to be found, and the busty wench bid me lay with her, but as the many ales took their toll I was sleeping like a dead man in Davey Jones' locker afore I had my eye patch off.

Back on board, sleep would not comfort me. The half-lit memories of the eventide still floundering like a silver mackeral washed ashore at dusk. I lay stranded on my bunk and contemplated the next great voyage...

'I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream, when the long trick's over.'

('Sea Fever', John Masefield.)






I remain,

Billy Blake

Arr, 'tis a sad tale to be sure.

I would be there with ya Billy my boy, supping mead and causing a rumpus, but I sailed for old Englund last week (a hazardous journey, itself worthy of a yarn), and now rest my bones in the old cottage of my youth.

Arrr. Give her one from me next time, you useless, pissed-up scur.

Arrr.

Nice stuff Blake, I just complimented you in the games room. Not to hijack anything, and I know you are getting into Jimmy Buffet here is something for you. Pirates Tale brought it to mind.


[FONT='Times New Roman', serif]This is a song, I guess I wrote this for an old friend of mine a few years back who could just not seem to find his occupation in the twentieth century. so he just chose to live in a fanta
Rld. and then I looked at him I went, well what the hells wrong with that? so if this song has been able to ease your pain ever so slightly, Im glad I wrote it cause thats what its for. it
Led pirate looks at forty.
Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call
Wanted to sail upon your waters since I was three feet tall
Youve seen it all, youve seen it all

Watched the men who rode you switch from sail to steam
In your belly you can hold the treasures few have ever seen
Most of em dreams, most of em dreams

Yes, I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons dont thunder, theres nothin to plunder
Im an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late

But Ive done a bit of smugglin, Ive run my share of grass
Made enough money to buy miami, but I pissed it away so fast
Never meant to last, never meant to last

I have been drunk now for over two weeks,
Passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But Ive got stop wishin, got to go fishin
Im down to rock bottom again
Just a few friends, just a few friends

Nice to see all of our friends every year. thank you
Friends.

Now I go for younger women, lived with several awhile
Though I ran em away, theyd come back one day
And I still could manage a smile
Sure takes a while, just takes a while

Mother, mother ocean, after all my years Ive found
Occupational hazard being my occupations just not around
Feel like Ive drowned, but I wont wear a frown
Feel like Ive drowned, Im gonna go check out
Peachtree street somewhere downtown[/FONT]

WB are you descended from Joseph Conrad perchance?

As always, a worthwhile read. Kudos!

Yo ho ho.

Another grand tale from Cap'n Blake's log. Thank ye kindly good sir.

But did yer shipmate get 'is timber's shivered I wonder?

Tread careful over them there fields Cap'n. Be sure ye listen to the belly of them wenches. 'Cause if you hear tickin', it just might be that crocodile what nearly took our good shipmate Peter Nung-Pan.

And after them ales, don't be forgettin'. You can't fly like our wot 'e does.

bravo