|
Cleaving, pounding forsty waves |
|
heading for the south |
|
a three-master manned with buccaneers |
|
scourges of the new world |
|
recognize no law |
|
brotherhood of hardened privateers |
|
jolly roger fluttering |
|
shameless and scornfull |
|
40 loaded beauty guns on deck |
|
tortuga awaits them |
|
trenches, rum and gold |
|
the captured frigate on its way back |
|
their last raid succesfull |
|
all holdings stuffed with loot |
|
the merchant vessel never stood a chance |
|
no quarter was givven |
|
pennon colourd red |
|
stabbing, guttering as its code demands |
|
the portugese was scuttled |
|
leftovers for the shards |
|
great whites feeding wild on piracy |
|
after the wine and bloodfloabs |
|
they sleep off their debauch |
|
speeding on the flush of victory |
|
then all of the sudden breaking weather |
|
puts an end to their prosperity |
|
entering weeks of steerless |
|
aimless floating |
|
in the calm and the merciless heat |
|
rapidly provisions are decreasing |
|
no more fruit and vegetables to eat |
|
scorbutics |
|
ravaging, the terror of the scuruy |
|
fluid creatures begging for their god |
|
intestinal haemorrhages |
|
bones wasting away |
|
corroding gristle, urinating blood |
|
fatiguing insomnia, teeth and hair fall out |
|
the rancid stench of living human rot |
|
scorbutics |
|
raving in delirious desperation |
|
the last of the freebooters slowly dies |
|
amongs the pus, blood, bones and bodies |
|
seagulls swallowing dead gazing eyes |
