The Cuckold Comes Out Of The Ambry
Scottish whistles twitter energetically, weaving about the
Jovial wine of fiddles and the steady beat of a hand drum.
They produce a warm sound that looks like the flicker of a
Cozy fire in a stone hearth of Durham.
The quick strings rise and fall with the smoothness of a passing swell,
A jaunty tune of taverns and inns across the Northumbria countryside.
Causing calloused feet to prance and even some buckled shoes to tap
On the decks worn and sanded smooth.
The whistles add a wistful and haunting sound, reminding all of how
Far away from home and loved ones they were on the far side of the world.
For now, this crowded wooden world fraught with tarred hemp and
Weathered canvas is their home, the woman they truly fight for.
The grog's scent floats freely, mixing with the lazy curls rising from clay pipes.
There's everything to gain and nothing to lose before the mast,
So live like there's no tomorrow; that nothing could be but a memory
And everything lasts a lifetime.