First mate, cook,
pirate supreme,
loving boat life,
living the dream.

One drunken sailor
we called Dirty Bert,
had the name of our boat
pinned onto his shirt.

People would find him
drunk on the quay,
they'd read the note
then lead him our way.

The fancy casinos,
or sweet reggae riffs,
a quick row to town,
in my little white skiff.

We'd fly the Black Roger,
launch water balloons,
party til dawn, but
it ended too soon.

We'd bring the guests
to the airport to go,
back to New York
or Colorado.

Back at their desks
or whatever they do,
pirates for a week,
and a Key West tattoo.