poetry
Black Rover strayed across the valley
He’d now escaped from the galley
The pirate’s den ’twas now dislodged
To the gutter, eternal strife he pledged
In the captain’s mess he once played chess
A black and white game, thus, not in jest
Divided, conquered, pushed his quest
Meanwhile in the hold were boorish rabble
Their game of chance, they called it scrabble
With one wrong word all chance was cancelled
Like the Black Rover to darkened streets
While lieutenants were entrusted to seize all fleets
Of gold they stole, divvied up by cheats
Unevenly — they had their chiefs
And underlings, who paid the thieves
They filled their chests, played some chess
Sacrificed all souls; invested less
Took their chances for success
A rigging not well understood
They moved their pieces best they could
But too many threads are easily bent
It’s not the game to play in Lent
So Lent was cancelled, to hell it went
To cuckoo land where the slaves are sent
But chess and scrabble went on and on
New rules permitted, were dried then hung
There’s nothing new left under the Sun
The rope was bound and freely swung
They lynched the players who wouldn’t come
To loot new fields, converting some
To kings and queens of galleys born
The tides ’ll move one way to meet
Each…
