The dreaded Blacksam
Her forlorn crew
A motley band.

Let harpoons loose
On victim's prow
Feel splinters bite

Our captain: dead
Our morale fades
Ropes clinging fast

A fearsome cry
Of terror's grin
A crimson tide

Hear plaintive pleas
Thrust upon blade
The reply short

Pray protect not
The sinning ship
With excused men

For condemned thus
Are pirates souls
To withered flame

The staining sin
Will ever stick
A blemished brand

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Mayan, in the year 794 AF.