Fun, by Buccaneer
     Fun ye says? Well, thar's fun me an' tha lads never tire of! As black night shrouds tha sky, we weigh anchor and sail over this glittering little town, above tha foul reek o' yer motorcarts, where tha air is cool and clean, and tha only sound is canvas rustling in the breeze.
     Moonlight plays across the decks of the 'Crescent Moon' (named for the crescent moon cut in my cabin door), givin' a sparkle to the dewdrops hanging from the rigging. The whole ship glistens as we sail in silence over the blissfully ignorant gentry of this loot-pot. Over State we sail, spitting over the rails, betting on who can nail that lady below in her lovely white dress, talking to her poodle as if tha two were of the same mind. Probably are. She looks into the trees, thinking it was a bird, but can't see our black-hulled ship drifting above.
     And to the luckless folk, bent, dirty, and shaggy, we drops a small gift o' wine, or leg o' mutton. They care little fer their bruised noggins, fer tha food's good.
     A wee tot looks up and points when we sails past the Arlington tower, an' we can hear her little voice as she points "Look, mum, a pirate ship!" 'er mum just drags tha little tyke along like baggage. Half a crown to tha mate who lands a loogie on her mum's head!
     Full sail, mates! We drift over the sea a bit, skirting the top of the fog-bank. White mist billows from the bow, curling around our heads, feeling cold and damp. Silence.
     Over the small college town we lower sails, for the sounds of revelry are heard below. The crew is anxious for a bit of sport, and with a nod from myself, they drop ropes over the rails and slide down to crash a party or two. Peals of laughter, breaking glass, shrieks of women. Ha! It's their fun, though, overturning motorcarts, poking the wenches to find the best pair, stuffing their shirts with ale bottles 'til they look like misshapen monsters, snarling broken-toothed in the faces of any with nerve to hold ground.
     Back up the ropes they scramble, for flashing lights warn of coming help for the hapless peasants. Brought a few plump wenches aboard for an evening's fun? Good for them! Silently snicker, peering over the rails as bloodied peasants point to the sky, right at our black ship, but blue-suited soldiers see nothing. Peals of laughter as soldiers take away a few dazed youths. Some hear us, and shout curses. Spit on their heads!
     On we sail, southwest, toward the beckoning mountains. We drop ballast, and rise higher for the crossing, singing The Ramblin' Rover as loud as we can. Over the mountains, we turn to follow the crest southward.
     The lookout calls, "Look below!" Over the rails we peer, hoping for something to spit on. The song ends, there is crushed silence.
     Below us, the land is raped, stripped of the life and beauty given it by his Lordship what made us. Desperate metal monsters rape the land, plunging up and down, up and down, stealing their pleasure. There is no tree, no grass, for the wild things to live in. Only dusty trails crossing back and fro, gleaming white as bare bone in the moonlight.
     Curses to the fools! So shall the rest of the land be, in less time than the old can forget the beauty of a walk in a forest, singing with the birds, tippin' a plumed pompadour to the sun, smelling dewdrops on the sagebrush. They're fools. They hide in their lordly mansions, not daring to show their faces where we can spit on 'em.
     Onward we sail, the lookout watchin' for some revelrous hall to raid. The crew will be especially fierce tonight, as there is anger in their hearts. The wenches they've taken are cowed by their anger. Like cows they've lived, sailing with us might open their eyes a bit, do them some good, though the crew will tire of them by morning and leave them somewhere precarious with nary a stitch of clothing. Top of the clock tower is a favorite. Top of a sea-borne earth-raping oil derrick is another. It gives them something to remember us by.

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