Hans Van der Lipp

Aaaaaaarg, Sweet Jimmy Shrike, Sweet Jimmy Lad, where arrrgh ya be gone?  I'd sing to me Jimmy while cutterin' the narsnip, sing to him,

"Awwww, Jimmy Boy, like the son I ne'er had,

a swarshbucklin, fiery lad,

we're not just making promises,

that we know we'll never keep."

Come to Amsterdam and dance in the town square with me and ma Clara, he could, but I affear, he's been washed overboard.  Aaaaargh, poor, poor, Jimmy Shrike, torn limb from limb by a group of dastardly whitefins, with only one eye left a sproutin from your sweet, poor eye socket.   I cant picture yer lil lad blood flowin along the headway, like a spot of spilt grog.  And yer liver, missed by the shark, nipped away by passin piranhas.  Oh, the grotesque savagery of it all.  What may have become of yer skull?  It is too much for me to picture, your little fingers floatin around on the tops of jelly fish.

Ooooh, and that poor cat who ye took as yer, poor, sweet own.   Aaaargh, I want to lash my own throat to the starboard gunnels rather than thinkin' of that poor mongrel, strugglin to get its tail from the grip of that ornery curmudgeon!  Aaaaargh, I can see it now, it's two beady eyes affixin on poor Percival.  I cannot bear to imagine the critter  smackin away at the poor cat's ribs while his poor begotten fur floats in tatters in the waters. 

Perhaps a passing fisherman, unbeknowst to the miserly tragedy, not knowing thewhole sorry tale, gathered his furry remnants together to forge a wig and is now foolin the lady kind into thinkin hes a dark haired swooner.  Aaaaargh, but what if he should meet Clara, and swoon her away with seatales of chasin sturgeon as she gazes at his new mohagony mane.  It is too much for one seaman to fathom.  Yaaaarh, sweet, Yaaarh.

Jimmy, I won't be throwin myself to the brine this dark night to take revenge on those sharks, for I've too much rum left in me bottle.  Fear not, my poor shredded, lad, that shark will see my sabre send him to the locker whaar he can sleep with the fishes!    And should I find a fisherman wearing the hide of your devoured Percival, I shall send him likewise fer even thinkin about me Clara!  Scallywag, you'll taste Hans' blade before ye brag about yer new head of hair!

The End

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