Life on the Reaper

Ho! The biscuits crawl with weevils, boys, the water stinks

of rot. The rum's the only drink we trust, but most the

crew forgot. The captain's coughing blood again and Macoo's lost a toe.

And Tommy hasn't bathed since we left port six months ago. Heave ho,

ye dogs of fate. No glory here, no pearly gate. Just hunger,

pain, and salted hate. On the rotting floor of the Reaper.

Hey! We sleep in hammocks damp with sweat, the air thick

as disease. A single shirt for months on end and not a