Fall not for Damos’ modesty,
For Damos wields a spirit strong;
A mortal though this man may be,
Good fortune keeps him living long.
But things had thus not always been
For Captain Damos, born Maltese,
At youth, abandoned all his kin,
To build a life upon the seas.
It’s dinner now, we take our seats,
And each of us can’t help but stare
As all the breads and salted meats
Are laid upon the table bare.
“Tonight, my friends, we shall eat well,
But save your licking of the lips,
For spices, fish, and gold to sell,
Awaiting us in Dutchmen’s ships.
“What say you, dearest friends of mine?
Shall we not brave the headwinds east?
We’ll steal those merchants’ gold and wine,
And gleefully repeat this feast!
A toast to you I do propose
For victory in battles near;
That all those men who us oppose
The Phoebe’s hoisted flag shall fear!”
To victory we raise a toast,
Our dishes gleaming lie in wait;
Poor Sockeye’s drooling at the roast
That’s gently steaming on the plate.
I carve a slice to give to him,
The tender flesh gives way beneath
The cold knife’s fierce unbending will,
And parts in two before its teeth.