Corsairs Of Old Poem by Captain Cur

Cutting lime, squatting on sun whitened sand,
I view the contours of my anchored ship
making mental notes I carefully scan
indigenous tribes as juice swarms round my lips.
I wave a fruit high, stuck to my sword tip,
and laugh at horse like creatures in the sky
raging past in great white unbridled bands,
like bold corsairs of old on maiden trips.
I will barter for water and supplies
or fight beneath the great white horse's eye.