06-24-2024, 04:36 PM
It's like a ghost ship here! So I've written a little rhyme to pass the time!
Forgive me in advance lol...
Tinker the Cat
A shout came from the crow's nest,
"Land ahoy, land ahoy!"
A call to chill the very hearts
Of every man and boy.
Belcraig Rock, the witches' isle,
All but fools would run a mile.
Yet here we were, a ragged crew,
Steadfast to our mission true.
The seer had seen it in a dream,
A cure we'd find to save the queen.
If we could only make a trade
With those old witches of Belcraig.
An old shore line, a makeshift camp,
Foggy, windy, wet and damp.
We lit a fire, we drew the straws,
Who would face those witchy maws.
Old Andrew drew that reed of fate,
And even though the hour was late,
And every step could be his last,
He set off down that witchy path.
And there we sat till break of day,
Till he returned, all ashen gray.
With haunted eyes and baleful glance,
He spoke as if one in a trance.
"One witch left, the last of three,
In fair exchange, I do decree,
That one must stay on Belcraig isle,
To help an old witch pass a while.
Bats and spiders, rats and mice,
Frogs and newts are very nice,
Yet somehow not enough for me,
One must stay, so mote it be."
And in his hands, he held a flask,
The writing said, "up to the task."
And silence echoed all around,
All eyes lowered to the ground.
No one could pay that dreadful cost,
And so it seemed all hope was lost.
When over by the rowboat's prow,
Came an old familiar meow.
The tarp had hid a stowaway,
Tawny, whiskered, striped, and gray.
'Twas Tink, the captain's feral cat,
I swear he understood all that.
He shot off down that witchy path,
As if each bound would be his last.
And as we all stared in disbelief,
Old Andrew said "so mote it be."
So there and then we all conspired,
To never speak of what transpired.
And all we'd given that old bat
Was salted beef and tallow fat.
Some fishing line, a box of nails,
Old gunny sacks and bail-out pails.
For we all knew the captain's mood,
And to a man we understood.
How he would rail and moan and cuss,
He'd rather have left one of us.
And even though we had the cure,
'Twould be the brig or lash for sure.
Sometimes I think of Belcraig isle,
And to this day, it makes me smile.
It made me somehow realise
That hell might just be paradise.
Depending on one's point of view,
When we set out for pastures new.
Like old cats and old boats,
Some might say that hope floats.
Not just for Tink, but for us all,
That we might heed that inner call,
To venture over far flung seas,
And shrouded isles of mystery.
Forgive me in advance lol...
Tinker the Cat
A shout came from the crow's nest,
"Land ahoy, land ahoy!"
A call to chill the very hearts
Of every man and boy.
Belcraig Rock, the witches' isle,
All but fools would run a mile.
Yet here we were, a ragged crew,
Steadfast to our mission true.
The seer had seen it in a dream,
A cure we'd find to save the queen.
If we could only make a trade
With those old witches of Belcraig.
An old shore line, a makeshift camp,
Foggy, windy, wet and damp.
We lit a fire, we drew the straws,
Who would face those witchy maws.
Old Andrew drew that reed of fate,
And even though the hour was late,
And every step could be his last,
He set off down that witchy path.
And there we sat till break of day,
Till he returned, all ashen gray.
With haunted eyes and baleful glance,
He spoke as if one in a trance.
"One witch left, the last of three,
In fair exchange, I do decree,
That one must stay on Belcraig isle,
To help an old witch pass a while.
Bats and spiders, rats and mice,
Frogs and newts are very nice,
Yet somehow not enough for me,
One must stay, so mote it be."
And in his hands, he held a flask,
The writing said, "up to the task."
And silence echoed all around,
All eyes lowered to the ground.
No one could pay that dreadful cost,
And so it seemed all hope was lost.
When over by the rowboat's prow,
Came an old familiar meow.
The tarp had hid a stowaway,
Tawny, whiskered, striped, and gray.
'Twas Tink, the captain's feral cat,
I swear he understood all that.
He shot off down that witchy path,
As if each bound would be his last.
And as we all stared in disbelief,
Old Andrew said "so mote it be."
So there and then we all conspired,
To never speak of what transpired.
And all we'd given that old bat
Was salted beef and tallow fat.
Some fishing line, a box of nails,
Old gunny sacks and bail-out pails.
For we all knew the captain's mood,
And to a man we understood.
How he would rail and moan and cuss,
He'd rather have left one of us.
And even though we had the cure,
'Twould be the brig or lash for sure.
Sometimes I think of Belcraig isle,
And to this day, it makes me smile.
It made me somehow realise
That hell might just be paradise.
Depending on one's point of view,
When we set out for pastures new.
Like old cats and old boats,
Some might say that hope floats.
Not just for Tink, but for us all,
That we might heed that inner call,
To venture over far flung seas,
And shrouded isles of mystery.
