Imagine it’s 1492. The homeland has vanished
Into the blue. You’re hungry and thirsty, angry
With everyone else on board. You’ve worked
The rigging for over a month as if playing chess
On a tightrope in a Barcelona wind. By the time
You reach the Bahamas you can’t even stand up
On the beach without swaying side to side. When
You recover from the journey, and the shy locals
Show up as naked and loving as the day of their birth,
You can’t help but want to fuck everyone in sight.
And you do before killing them. In between, you eat
Fruit, fish and sleep in hammocks. You make rum
And fun and long for the broiled hams of Granada.
You’re not the Captain, not the 2nd in command: this
Bloody sex is all you’re likely to get of the enterprise.
In the end, it’s the Captain who gets the blame and fame.