Barquentine

Well miss it's me leg thats off an thar'll be those 'll tell ye that I've got a habit of not finishing stories do to the pain in aforementioned aperture. But any story as makes it into yer thready gots my stamp of approval

Arr thar be some stories an such in a mind pickled by sea salts! need a drink farst!

Happy birthday ye ...err...pyrate ye.

Bloody wrinkles!! Thar best be a fine an proper explanation for this wicked an unproper attack on poor ol Barquentine! I didn't crawl through the crap clogged bowels of a bloated blue whale to be molested by the likes o 'ee!! Hells blood and gallstones!! I guess you fetid shanks of mephitic gerbal refuse think ye pulled one on the "ol Barq" but I'll say this! Next one of 'ee worm bitten grub heathens finds 'emselves stirrin in a liquor induced puddle of bile 'n turnips, ye best be checkin yer gender! Here poor 'ol Barquentine comes in yer midst all peaceful an gracious, like an angel an looky what happens! Pah! (spits) An another thing! Whoever the regurgitated ass-eel is that carved "suck it" on my Virgin Mary owes me a new figurehead! It aint proper (You stinking strand of filthy mongoose slobber) to be puttin a knife to a woman ass! -even if it be made of teak! Gaaaarrrrrrr!!

is that smilin?

Happy readin lass

'ere be a tale by me favorite author Willam'Ope 'Odgson. Scary enuff to make even old Barquentine shiver in 'is boot. (spits and throws old leather tome on table) http://eserver.org/fiction/glen-carrig/contents.html

Puds the bloody cat. Anyway fer reasons i aint sayin Im untyin from your "fancy pancy" sloop an tyin up with u know who. >;( -I'm tellin all you Greenhorn land-humping bags of farm refuse a Pyrate'll figure out the seven winds for he fathoms the mind of a head strong woman.

Argh! Well one blasted thing leads to another see and things bein as they are with my Pyrates promise an secret mission an un-registered cargo... An my leg all withered in such a way... - It don't seem proper to let a damsel be traipsing about in the Cruxs' half-bilged innards.... what with the rats an crap an that ****ing cat. I'll tell ee a little story about Pud. Twas two weeks ana day into winter an the bow smashed the brine like an axe cuts oak rounds. The Crux was riding out the Nor' Wester an call me a filthy lyin dirt-hippy if she wont blowin 85 knots. Well the bosun calls out through Hells bluster.. "Barquentine!" An I barely hears him cause the gust hits us sideways an my china's on the floor in a thousand pieces. Finally I hears im. "Barquentine" He says an I says "For the love of Whordom you filthy maggott! Grab the *tiller!!" An well anyways there's a bag of turnips ashore. I suppose ye could row them over to me sometime. *the mast was snapped an we had to use a makeshift tiller made of bamboo you filthy grub worm

So ye wants to know why Barquentine an the Crux be tied to yer fine sloop then eh m'lady? Well well well there be a fine an proper answer to that Miss missy, but ye should not have to ask. What be a broken gib other than an excuse to fulfill a promise made. Search your memory. Aye search it well an once the clouds of dreams and war are blown aside like blood red leaves, an the sea is calm praps you'll remember? -Until then here's a ditty I made up while I dressed the varmint: Well the ropes be thick with the ice of fjords -an the air full o flying snow, an the smell of Pine be in the air -To the North lands I will go Beware the wind and the rock an weather In that land of stars an heather.

Thank ee mam (blushes) >:| -Anyway turns out it was that god damn flea bitten cat again. Your all off the hook I guess

Alrighty this be your final warning whoever the whore whelp is that was snoopin about the belly of my ship. (the flemish gallion on the second dock roped up to Rosalindas sloop you rancid chunk of fetid donkey mulch) ...That reminds me of a poem I heard in the bowels of Madrid by a fat lady barkeep with no hands.. "The old wind blows across the grey seas of ages, an the oars of time pass by unheard amid the driftwood an the weeds, thas where my heart lies..." The wine talkin *burp* poetrys for women and ladies boys with frilly garments an fancy city talk. When a mans bin on the o'ol salt chuck as long as Barquentine he gets lonely. Reeeeal lonely like an he starts thinkin stuff an well anyways ANYWAYS yeah if I catch the bastard who was feebling around the guts of the "Crux" I will personally beat them like a red headed step child.