Here be a thing I'd like to share with the company:
Now, I've seen a deal o' bloody work in my time. Sad to say, thing's ain't always friendly among we corsairs. There be fights over treasure; there be sheer boredom at sea, and most of all, there be rum. Often a man be found dead in his bunk with his throat cut, and nought to say which o' his shipmates did the deed.
And then the whole crew takes a vote over who's to walk the plank. And many's the time we've found out that the poor soul were innocent as a newborn lamb (well, apart from everything else he'd done in his career
) and that the scurvy dogs who sent him overboard were the guilty ones. (Or, were he a wrong 'un indeed, they'd been all in it together.)
And what's the thing I've heard dogs like that say so often that the ship's parrot starts copying 'em? Why, just "It's only a random vote... it's only a random vote..."
I be not sure whether 'tis the same among landlubbers, but I be keeping a weather-eye out for this
Brinniel now. And I be finding it strange, too, that no one else sees fit to comment– not
me husband dear, not
His Majesty the King O' Harad, not
the sorcerer. Why, even
the wench she voted don't seem to mind!
'Tis strange. I need to think on it some more.
In the meantime, who's for a song?
Fifteen Men on the dead dwarf's chest–
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the Dark Lord had done for the rest–
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
EDIT: X'd with a host.