Captain von Falkenberg

The wind sways the legs of sailors now dead, Who yesterday hung from the yard. Torn sails lifted high on the masts overhead, As the skies slowly turn dark and hard.

Let storm waves fiercely pound the bowsprite, Cutthroats gather on the fighting tops. The ghostly crew of the Flying Dutchman Ventures out for the evening's dark ops.

Last night near dusk we took a brig by storm, Loaded with the English queen's gold bars. The Brits chopped up our rigging to do harm, Felled a mast and pierced our port side spars.

The captain's gambling dice with the Devil below, That scoundrel's drunk on rum again. While above deck the crew prayed for a nor'easter's blow, To Old Horn and Hoof, he lost the soul and frigate!

Buccaneers fear no blades, no bullets or cannonballs, The cutthroats cursed by the Devil forevermore! We'll sail from the Northern Sea to distant the Cape of Storms, Led by the dreadful Captain von Falkenberg of yore!