Muddled mop heads

He drew a finger

In the burning sand

This X, says he,

Joined by his crew

Is the putative site

Of our retirement shares

Not to be split

Until as ancient pirates

Our roving days are done–

Aye, they seethed

With stench & ugly scars

With eye patches

And wooden  legs & lost fingers…

So dig deep, ye scoundrels,

And mark the mountains

And the azure seas:

For here lies your future

When creaky with years

We circle back slowly

For one last dig

Your very own graves:

What the land lubbers call “retirement”

And we call the black spots, the end mates.


End is Nigh, You Cutthroats!

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