“For Gabrielle the belle of the Pirate Ball, for the good sailors below from Cardiff, Portsmouth, and Wicklow, for the galley cook stuck on a strand eating his weeviled stew, for the firebrand betrayed who sits by the fire remembering her days of “rollick and ire”, for the old sea captain who visited one night to comfort his son and faded from sight, for the smell of the ocean, the pitch of the deck, we sign up aboard a slovenly wreck and don dead men’s clothes and wear tattered rags, jest for the chance to be Raising Black Flags!

So, raise a mug to Blackbead and to his motley crew, homeward bound they may be, but drink ye their words inscribed on the page, and soon ye’ll be feeling the deck and the pitch, cheering for booty and prize, hauling and heaving with sweat in yer eyes. Ye’ll be scanning the horizon for the Spanish and French sitting dead in the water all begging for boarding, then drinking and wenching when you’re back on the shore, and soon ye’ll be yearning fer sailing once more. Avast me Hearties! Look down on the plowman, his zigs and his zags, Tis only this freedom can raise our black flags!”

thank Ye very kindly fer asking me opinion,
Cap’n Robespierre of the Frigate Grey Ghost