I met a pirate when I was five
Hardly any were still alive
To tell of pillage, looting, rape,
And other forms of male escape
From civilizing laws and rules –
And, I hoped, from sports and schools.

Peg-legged, hooked, and patched, he stood,
Magnificently maimed, as good
As any picture I had seen
In movie, book, or magazine –
But since he also looked so old
He didn’t really look too bold

I asked, since I could not keep still,
The questions grownups never will:
“How’d you lose your leg and all?”
He glared at me, “A cannon ball!”
We gasped – and clamored for the story
Of pirating for loot and glory!

“Your hand! What happened to your hand?”
I knew he’d tell us something grand –
He did! “A scurvy matey swung
A sword – I stabbed him through the tongue
My dagger up into his brain,
And pitched him in the Spanish Main!”

“Your eye! Your eye!” we chorused, then,
Imagining the fighting men
And fighting ships, the belching guns,
And wishing we had been the ones
Beneath that blue Caribbean sky
Even if fighting cost an eye.

“My eye?” he asked, his frown immense,
I’ve never been so excited since,
I knew this part would be the best –
There’d probably be a treasure chest.
He growled, as in my face he shook
His handless steel: “First day with me ‘ook!”