On crooked masts

The crowded sails’ belly is full,

Of hot winded traders at the

Free wheeling privateers

Drunken meetings.

Sharks circling, feeding on

The free trades chum of the slaves,

As they walk the thin plank

Of freedom to their doom.

Swimming toward the land that

Was once theirs. Now shadowed

By the dark flags of skulls and

Bones, corporate conquest

And thundering war drums echo

In the once verdant hills.