The Curs’ed Quill

‘Twas a dirty bird,

’twas called the Quill

a shifting letter

in a sky still.

I’d be on me boat,

two pirates legs:

one made of wood

looked like a peg.

This bird would caw

and caw away

a little dubya

in the sky grey.

I’d gasp and roar:

“Thar be the Quill!”

but with guns a’ready

the clouds lay still.

I’d scratch me head

a befuddled clown

a pure mans dunce

wearing a pure mans frown;

but then the Quill

it would caw again

and in the sky no Quill

as we took aim.

The cawing began

to catch me craw;

my eye a twitchin’

more stress in store

as this beady bird

with black eyes beaming

would caw and crow

as my ears be screaming.

“Shut the bleeder up!”

me men would roar

but the shifting bird

would invisibly caw.

Our eyes grew heavy –

beneath them grey,

our skin grew lined:

a pact was made.

“We kill the bird

with the dirty caw

because, me lubbers,

it be gettin’ on me craw.

We stay awake tonight.

No eye may rest,

’til that birdy’s body

be in me chest.”

A prize booty

worth a year long gloat,

we shook sturdy hands

upon me boat.

The night grew black,

torches be lit;

the only sounds:

tabacco spit.

The caw began

at 13 o’ clock,

the boat shimmied and shook

as it began to rock.

“Who be thar?”

I asked, a cap’n brave,

not realising me men

were a’top their grave.

The bird it cawed

and tingles pricked,

a jittery hearty

jumped and kicked.

We chortled and roared

at his weak livered folly,

in this tense time

a moment to be jolly.

The bird cawed again,

’twas on me boat!

‘Twas on the shoulder

of me cabin boys coat.

We all took aim,

the blam did deafen

and that sweet cabin boy

now be in Heaven.

The Quill cawed again,

a collective echo,

it be everywhere!

I felt the first blow.

A collective groan echoed

as we fell to the floor;

in our final moments,

a mocking caw.


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