Waterfront Pub

Heard in stories of ancient times, a ship at sea of the privateer line. A rat infested rigger with a creaking deck, sailed into Point Berry as a seafaring wreck. A crew of sailors, dastardly and mean, shift of the eye for a chicken to pluck clean. A flock of buzzards turned loose on a town, drinkers of ail, stealers of pound. windows closed, shutters pulled tight, doors shackled and bared, locked for the night. Laughter and curses mingled with a shout, “Keep your hands off me.” a wench cries out. “Come now, lass give ole Plke a kiss, six months at sea, vinegar and piss. Pistols charged, powder and ball, blood on a blade, slice of a jaw. Loose of tongue, drunk with wine, Pillager and cutthroat of every kind. a scene right out of a whiskey jug, played on the stage of a waterfront pub.