Ye scoundrel.

Aye, yer still a treach'rous rake,

brave in yer swashbucklin' ways, a

criminal, cravin' still the

delicious ache o' romance–

embers of a bygone blaze, the faint

fragrance of a yesterday, the

Glimmer o' the morrow.

Here – my hero's heart for ye, and

In it, growin' ardor.

Joined, us, on this windless eve,

kindred in our longin' –

lamplit skin and tangled limbs,

moored in misty harbor, no

northern star to follow–

only an endless sheen o' water;

primitive, the thirst for touch,

quenchless when it's hollow.

Raise yer flag and sheath yer sword;

surrender all yer cities.

Tally up the gone, the good;

unhand yer shinies and yer pretties.

Verily, ye drew a map

with fingertips on linen:

X is where the riches were, but I came back,

ye lyin' rat, and there's

zero gold where I be diggin'.