whatta piece-a junk

Our Ship, the H.M.S. Sinkwell
(also known as the Running Sore)

She may not look like much, but she's certainly been land-worthy, a rather useful thing when one is stuck in a land-locked village.
Our own Ensign Wesley Stubbs (Retired) did most of the design and construction, which explains a lot if you think about it.
At any rate, she could roll handily o'er the rocky shore with the help of a good strong push, and carry a number of our instruments of destruction, including Peg Reilly when she was too drunk to walk. (Which was most of the time.)
But! One tragic day our boat got Das Boot. We refer, of course, to that hideous orange thing which appeared on the wheel like some ugly parasitical growth. closeup of the boot

(See! It's true!) Photo evidence by Linda Sweeting

Our troubles began when we started finding pieces of parchment rudely tacked to the mast. They turned out to be Docking Tickets from His Majesty's Pub Traffic Comptroller's Office. "+*&^%$#@!!" we said. We had been docking at the White Hart Tavern for weeks and weeks without incident (except for that unfortunate "encounter" with the baby carriage, but we've been told never to speak of that). The Pyrates Royale have always believed in taking a pro-active tack with life's little "challenges." So, we burned each so-called ticket that appeared on the mast. Then this bleedin' boot appeared. We have a feeling, though, that it may meet with a tragic accident very soon. Property of HM's Pub Traffic meter mongers has a tendency to, oh, burst into flames spontaneously.

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Row, row, row your boat gently down the strand. Life at sea's all right I guess, but I prefer the land.