I took the helm with a hangover grin,
a bottle of guts and a map of sin.
No gold in sight, just debts and songs,
the crew all wrong, but they sang along.
"Captain!" they cried, with knives in their teeth,
as I slashed the sky and cursed the reef.
The sails were patched with unpaid dues,
our cannonballs? Last month’s bad news.
But we sail on through storm and scrap,
with pride that leaks and a hull of crap.
No treasure found, no glory flash,
just scars and poems, signed with slash.
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