The Land of Rhyme Remembered

Sail most by north, by west the least, until the moon sets in the east. There, in a sea the colour of custard, ye'll see the Ile de Deux Sans Mustard where locals speak like buccaneers, calling you ‘me dirrr' and us ‘me dirrrrs'. Their pirate accent's quite inexorable though, than ours, their grammar more is flexible. They appear to verge on being mammalian, a little bit like South Australians (I'd never for the sake of mirth deride the folks who come from Perth). Hard left, first manatee you see, or right, your choice, you're free as me (it's nix to do with politics, a pox on all elected plicks). Sail till the sea turns sweetest violet and there you'll spot the cutest islet (had we to rhyme with ‘sweetest red' it'd be a continent instead). Here, when poetry is long dismembered, lies the place of rhyme remembered. Yes, you have come upon a land that any poet would think is grand, where almost everybody aint any kind of ffffflamin' saint, but seldom use the worst of curses, when they converse in freeish verses, or communicate in playful rhyme, pretty much whenever they feel like it.