Poetry Corner

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before seven; and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of the clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap.
Then we quarrel and scold, 'til I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again

In real life I hate pirates,
They swear and fart in bed,
They steal your dirty hankies,
And tie them ‘round their heads.
In real life I hate pirates,
They make such awful noise,
They sneak into your bedroom,
And play with all your toys.
In real life I hate pirates,
But today it’s just pretend,
So I’ll go and fetch my cutlass,
An’ murder all my friends.

The waters were his winding sheet,
The sea was made for his tomb.
Yet for his fame the ocean sea,
Was not sufficient room.