I weigh the scales on Avery –
was he a cutthroat in the main,
pyrites pirate by his name,
the gold of fools if was the same,
Dallinson’s tree, as it unfolds?
What was the tree seen on that branch,
as others, blade point, walked the plank,
or was he blade of different rank,
as many swam yet others sank,
he, Beau Brummel on parade?
Our study grave, stones in the yard,
or was it yardarm swung that weight,
with length of rope, a measured fate,
no longer captain with his mate,
but tenth of cousin, once removed.
Of Barberry, along his coast,
much like the apes we hear about,
once brave, did heart of oak give out,
those quiver legs in place of stout,
a freezing as he mounted block?
What would it be, at scaffold wood -
his final words at hangman play,
a curse upon the world, its way,
his victims keen, whiplash they say,
some sweet revenge his just deserts?
Already scattered, wild oats sown,
as we find records, have to own
the seed mix of our past long grown,
romantic hinterland the tone,
and treasure chest, Y marked with X?