Tuesday June 13th, 1719
My name's really Robert Shaftoe, but Captain Bottoms wasn't listening when I signed up so now I'm Bobby Shafted. That's not a name that's going to look good when I get published. And I will get published, the whole point of coming to sea was to get some inspiration and a bracing sea-breeze to put some hair on my chest.
The Siren song of suicide,
Lures the ship to doom,
The Captain's lying dying,
In his gas-filled room.
This isn't a pleasure cruise either, and that's something else the Cap'n, Davy Jones take his blackened, rotting soul didn't tell me about when I signed up. "See the seas!" he said, waving a pot of grog about and spilling it all over my notes on ambulatory vegetation. "Meet strange people in exotic lands!"
All well and good, but he never said that they'd all be on some stinking scow as well, and intent on killing me. Usually with a weapon as rusty and ill-used as the Cap'n's... well, you know.
The first mate's cut his throat
And the passengers are dead,
The bosun's fallen overboard
And the cook has boiled his head.
I thought that the name of the ship was an omen! The pink daffodil! A clear reference to Wordsworth, I thought. It doesn't strike terror in the hearts of men, it makes think of happy, gay things. Instead I'm surrounded by sweaty, hairy murderous oafs who think my poetry is toilet paper. Even the cabin boy, little Jim Shrike, beats me up every couple of days and keeps hiding my ink. I think it might be affecting my poetry too.
Still the ship sails on
Into the sunset's rosy glow,
Because the masts are burning
And there's nowhere else to go.