Dead Man's Chest
Oh, how I love the gentle breeze the tide brings,
and the clouds that caress the horizon sweetly.
The earliest seagulls part their pearl white wings,
as they are consumed by the rippling waves completely.
My pipe has that familiar charred taste of pine,
I had left it near playing cards as I may recall.
A twelve foot harpoon, a jack knife and twine,
the whistle I once used to signal a great haul.
A forty foot wave claimed six lives that day,
all but one old fool who was the first to bail.
Who then later on washed up on the bay,
grasping a wood plank, some rum and a sail.
The merry Windsor is what she was named,
lost to Davy Jones in the prime of her run.
For I was the coward that had to be blamed,
as a protective mother scolds her begotten son.
I have seen a world that does not forgive,
the seven sea's are now the real keeper.
The ghosts of their travels that I could relive,
found in these briny depths is the reaper.
The tales from the deep are often unspoken,
the secrets of those have drowned with the rest.
An oath to this day that will never be broken,
all in that tattered and forever locked chest.
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