The doors fire open and raiders roll in One to each stool at the bar The ale starts to pour as the bilge starts to flow Debauched tales of journeys afar
Woe cast upon all the dwellers of land No quarter given to anyone here The boisterous clamor like cannons' report While townsfolk chase shots with their tears
And what I saw that night will forever play out in my mind With roguish bravado, the fools literally drank themselves blind
Shine up your patches and lower the sails We make way when one of us walks a straight line Until then the volume will rise like the tide And down will go gallons of beer, mead and wine
No bias cut in the line to enlist So raise up a tankard and join in the din All's fair in lust, spirits, mock'ry and war At least to the last buccaneers… at the Scarborough Inn
Spirits collide with illogical boasts in a heady maelstrom of aqua vitae Mute apparitions on god-given missions to pry joyous tears from every ruddy eye The tall tales told in the words of dead men fall garbled from mouths of mangled corsairs “Ralph?” turns to “Roger!”, a retching marauder is dragged out to take in some much needed air
Some emerald green is slipped to the barmaid to turn a blind eye to the drunken buffoon The villains all mimic, and so soon the cynical server's the wealthiest wench in the room
Shine up your patches and lower the sails We make way when one of us walks a straight line Until then the volume will rise like the tide And down will go gallons of beer, mead and wine
The wimps and the posers can show themselves out It's no aggravation to cut yourself in Drink hearty me hearties and drop your last buck Getting trashed with the last buccaneers… at the Scarborough Inn
In vino veritas In cervesio felicitas In aqua bacteria
In vino veritas In vita dolor In aqua mors
In wine there is truth In life there is pain In water there are only ships and the dead Inside this tavern rest souls of the damned Inhabiting bodies who frequent the head
Those left behind in their watery graves Still moan in their soggy sepulchers Their groans shall be echoed come rise of the sun By every last over-served punter
Shine up your patches and lower the sails We make way when one of us walks a straight line Till then the volume will rise like the tide And down will go gallons of beer, mead and wine
No end in sight to the flow of the rum No droplets spilled - in this church it's a sin Raise up your horns and your tankards and cans As the last buccaneers standing here… at the Scarborough InnTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
