Waterfront Pub
Heard in stories of ancient times,
a ship at sea of the privateer line.
A rat infested rigger with a creaking deck,
sailed into Point Berry as a seafaring wreck.
A crew of sailors, dastardly and mean,
shift of the eye for a chicken to pluck clean.
A flock of buzzards turned loose on a town,
drinkers of ail, stealers of pound.
windows closed, shutters pulled tight,
doors shackled and bared, locked for the night.
Laughter and curses mingled with a shout,
“Keep your hands off me.” a wench cries out.
“Come now, lass give ole Plke a kiss,
six months at sea, vinegar and piss.
Pistols charged, powder and ball,
blood on a blade, slice of a jaw.
Loose of tongue, drunk with wine,
Pillager and cutthroat of every kind.
a scene right out of a whiskey jug,
played on the stage of a waterfront pub.
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