Self-Jettisoned at Thirty Knots

“That’s the key to solving the paradox.”
— Kenneth W. Starr

Avast! Abaft! Ye blowhards!
Now rent of its disguise
Your ship has shown its colors,
The skull-and-crossbones flies.

Get ye out from that galley,
Come ye down from that poop,
Enough of your peacocking,
The public has the scoop.

Abaft a pegleg captain
Your sins cannot be hid,
Your legacy florescent
Reveals just what you did.

How many leagues you’ve traveled,
Your ship profoundly rigged,
But it was some strong vodka
You and your mateys swigged.

For mast a phantom gibbet,
Stitched creeds to make your sail,
Bark built from bones of dead men,
And thereby hangs a tale.

In wake of years of piracy,
In wake of years of theft,
Your party’s credibility
Reveals there’s nothing left.

To Davy Jones’s locker
Dear Mr. Starr, with ye
As member of your party
To rust your snickersnee.