The green-blue expanse of the sea,
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A frigate is on its way, in tight haul.
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Sailors, not foreseeing grief,
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Compose songs about Madrid.
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Nobody from the frigate noticed
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Point movement to the side,
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A strong south wind drove the schooner,
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With a flying flag on a topmast.
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And only when the shot rang out,
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Then the crew noticed:
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That flag was the Jolly Roger
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And the schooner went to BOARDING!
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Boarding - the whistle of bullets and buckshot!
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Boarding - the sound of steel on steel!
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Boarding - the whistle of bullets and buckshot!
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Boarding - your time has come!
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Buckshot whistles, tearing the sail to shreds,
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Everyone, exterminating on the way.
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Fasten the sides when they grabbed
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They have grappling hooks.
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Masts and shrouds have disappeared from the clubs.
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Eats the burning smoke of the eye.
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To those who remained from the team,
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Never swim again.
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Boarding - the whistle of bullets and buckshot!
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Boarding - the sound of steel on steel!
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Boarding - the whistle of bullets and buckshot!
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Boarding - your time has come!
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And only the sounds of battle subsided
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And the smoke began to dissipate,
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The Spaniards were waiting for the slavery of grief,
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The hold of piastres was waiting for the pirates.
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Money was placed on the schooner,
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Captured in the hold and in shackles.
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Hooks and tackle unhooked
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And they fell on their usual course.
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There is no mention of a pirate schooner.
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Frigate flooded with water,
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Disappeared in the open abyss.
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And the sea found peace. |