A swashbuckler by trade

Armed to the teeth

With jibes that don’t fade

On some rogues to bequeath

A spirit that is tempered

With slyness and spunk

In eyes that have simpered

From a shed clearing where they slunk

A sizzling morrow

Awaiting his fruition

With no sorrows to borrow

Against his burning volition

So formal the salute

That meets with pirate’s scowl

Unveiling the fruit

Of one trite, lost, tenuous soul