Captain Flint

Old Captain Flint Walks the salt-beaten pier, With a tremble of gold And a harvest of fear. A track on of leather, A coat stained with brine. He's chasing the shadows Of a lost jagged line. Upon his left shoulder, A splash of bright green. The foulest companion, The tavern has seen. They whisper in corners, they tap at their head. The captain is touched, he's as good as the Dead. With a squawk and a rattle, The bird mocks the gale, while Flint tells the Stars a fragmented tale. Oh, talk to the feathers, Mm, talk to the moon. Old Flint and his devil Will go down soon. Pieces of eight, Cries the bird to the sky. With a rottenness voice, a glint in its Eye. The sailors all shiver, Ooh, they turn away fast. As a shadow of madness clings to the Mast. He hums to the parrot, He pours it some rum. Waiting for ghosts and the kingdom to Come. Is there truth in the squawk and the wind In the bone? Is he reaping the harvest that Sorrow has sown? They call him a madman, a fool, And a wreck. While the feathered companion keeps Guard on his deck. They don't hear the secrets this bird whispers low, Of treasures and terrors from ages ago. They whisper in corners, they tap at their head. The captain is touched, he's as good as the Dead. With a squawk and a rattle, The bird mocks the gale, while Flint tells the Stars a fragmented tale. Oh, talk to the feathers and talk to the Moon. Old Flint and his devil will go Down soon. Oh, Will go down soon. Oh. No anchor will hold and no mercy remains. With rust on the cutlass and ice in his Veins. Just the bird and the captain drifting away, Into the dark past the edge of the day. Squawk. Pieces of eight. Just fate.