Thankin' yer Priestlinesses and blessin' ye bones, I'm overcooked and under paid so'm I'm thankin yer Likenesses!!
But why do all those Blokes have their scurvy thumbs up their bleedin' pieholes? Whistles are fer dogs, the scurvy lot.
It's a rum thing, and this calls for Rum! Who's my subjudant? Hawkins, nah he's back at the teet o' his mum! Simplot, cann'I kick his ribs? Seems like a good bloke tho.
An' am thinkin' this Motley Crew needs a Chaplain, otherwise the men may be thinkin' wit' their Bruces rather than their peachpits. I'd be a'morrin happy to give yer Popelinesses a word from time to time, but I'm inclined, oh yes I am and headfirst o'er the stern as we speak, to suggest her Holiness Haligan as Proctor, Preacher and Minister to the sordid flock.
Lt.Cmr McWilliam St. Louis "Punchdrunk" Bondoman, an' ats cause me mum luvd me!