arrrrrrrr, ye sorry sons of biscuit eaters, I be loaded te the gunwhales on clap o’ thunder, and I don’t be plannin’ on spendin’ the night in the gibbet cage, so man the six pounders and run a shot across the bow. If ye sorry scrogs don’t broadside that cog we’ll be dancin’ the hempen jig by morn. Scuttle that plate fleet and this scurvy dog’ll be crackin’ Jenny’s tea cup with a black jack o’ Nelson’s folly in me hand and a chest o’ doubloons by me side by day’s end, by thunder. No prey, no pay. So hoist the jack and bring ‘er alongside, says I. Thar be some ladies of expansive sensibility awaitin’ me at dock.
- how’s the weather
- car rant