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Writer's Block: Speak Like a Pirate Day
Sep. 19th, 2008 09:39 am[Error: unknown template qotd]
The Call of the Sea? Speak rather of the Sea's Curse.
Listen well, lad, to your new Captain, for it is the last time I shall speak so plainly to you. Most turn their hands to this trade because it is the natural nadir of a fumbling career of incompetence or criminal stupidity. As for others, there are some amongst us (and more than you may suspect) who have been driven to the piratical life by conspiracies of lesser men, by the outmoded opinions of that "confederacy of dunces," simply because their intimate tastes were more of the Roman or Greek style, if you take my meaning. I see you do not. Ha! No matter. You will meet some of them, by and by, I assure you.
For those of us who are not mere bumbling dunces it is ever Sin and Scandal that drive us to this profession. And a damned trade it is, which promises not wealth (though many a captain has been driven mad by dreams of gold) nor any roof more certain than the enveloping waves.
The one great attraction, the one advantage to a piratical career, is it permits a man to drown the memory of his sins by drinking down great gulping draughts of yet more depravity. The deflowered maid of his youth, the friend he accidentally killed through brawling... all these sins may be made little and forgotten by hiding them behind evils yet larger. And those in turn, may be made to vanish under a flood of ever-greater iniquities.
Did you steal farthings from the church box, and run to sea rather than face your father's rod? No matter. We shall soon fire a church, slit the throats of the penitents, and seize the crucifix and melt it for gold. Then you shall see how small and laughable a thing your sin was! Ha ha!
But, I perceive I have not answered your questions.
My First Mate is Old Nick, the blackamoor outcast of Heaven himself. It is he who fires the men to violence, and he who keeps rough order and discipline, through his Jungle Law. He sails on our every venture, and takes more than his fair share of treasure, you may be sure.
As to the riches that I might die for, well, lad, that is a foolish question most ways, for it is the trade of a pirate to make the other fellow die, and take his treasure. Yet, there is one thing. Though I have the freedom of the Seven Seas:
What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale
Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The "booty" I'd "walk the plank" for is the dead past, boy, and there are none in Heaven or Earth with the power to give it to me. Now, drink your rum and powder, if you ever speak to me again without leave, you'll be lashed on the capstan.
Tomorrow, you'll be the one to fire the church.
The Call of the Sea? Speak rather of the Sea's Curse.
Listen well, lad, to your new Captain, for it is the last time I shall speak so plainly to you. Most turn their hands to this trade because it is the natural nadir of a fumbling career of incompetence or criminal stupidity. As for others, there are some amongst us (and more than you may suspect) who have been driven to the piratical life by conspiracies of lesser men, by the outmoded opinions of that "confederacy of dunces," simply because their intimate tastes were more of the Roman or Greek style, if you take my meaning. I see you do not. Ha! No matter. You will meet some of them, by and by, I assure you.
For those of us who are not mere bumbling dunces it is ever Sin and Scandal that drive us to this profession. And a damned trade it is, which promises not wealth (though many a captain has been driven mad by dreams of gold) nor any roof more certain than the enveloping waves.
The one great attraction, the one advantage to a piratical career, is it permits a man to drown the memory of his sins by drinking down great gulping draughts of yet more depravity. The deflowered maid of his youth, the friend he accidentally killed through brawling... all these sins may be made little and forgotten by hiding them behind evils yet larger. And those in turn, may be made to vanish under a flood of ever-greater iniquities.
Did you steal farthings from the church box, and run to sea rather than face your father's rod? No matter. We shall soon fire a church, slit the throats of the penitents, and seize the crucifix and melt it for gold. Then you shall see how small and laughable a thing your sin was! Ha ha!
But, I perceive I have not answered your questions.
My First Mate is Old Nick, the blackamoor outcast of Heaven himself. It is he who fires the men to violence, and he who keeps rough order and discipline, through his Jungle Law. He sails on our every venture, and takes more than his fair share of treasure, you may be sure.
As to the riches that I might die for, well, lad, that is a foolish question most ways, for it is the trade of a pirate to make the other fellow die, and take his treasure. Yet, there is one thing. Though I have the freedom of the Seven Seas:
What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale
Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
The "booty" I'd "walk the plank" for is the dead past, boy, and there are none in Heaven or Earth with the power to give it to me. Now, drink your rum and powder, if you ever speak to me again without leave, you'll be lashed on the capstan.
Tomorrow, you'll be the one to fire the church.
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