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 Inn