Dead Men Pirate Tears

A question forthwith has been rightly posed; Do I taunt the matriarch English queen? Am I a dead Captain of pirate prose? Do I dwell in chivalrous age sixteen? Those are answers your intellect decides and what fancy one chooses to believe, yet; spectral ships, with guns and ghostly crews, may be veiled truths or conceptual lies but once they are upon you and give siege can now be deemed questions posed by fools. My crew of cutthroats is a mangy lot, yet; are born from the highest pedigree, they work the sails and tie thick sturdy knots and live beneath the specter of the sea. We have no country and roam free at will plundering whatever ships cross our way; we drink our rum and fill our guts with beer, on enchanted nights when the sea is still composing tunes and singing starlit lays the ocean fills with dead men pirate tears. Bantering within our prestigious psyches gold turnkeys which mobilize the varied successes and failures that haunt our lives; where the gusty northern winds will carry our ship, our souls to fortunes final quest; if through horizon's purple haze you see a beastly sail above the earthly rise, I will swear the reason for my duress whether by fate or the devil's treachery, my crew believes that they are still alive.