Dead Man's Fingers

Down in a moonlit Cornish cove the Dutchman's crew were washed ashore

Ethereal figures from a creeping sea mist, seeking trove from a man-o'-war

And stealthily they climbed the cliffs, on the way to a distiller's lair in St Ives

Drifting spice laced spirits were there, to claim the dark souls of others lives

Mariners hid away, in the local inns, some relaxed in houses and the Shack

All supped, from a dead man's skull, under flags of the white cross on black

None the wiser were they, as an ominous shroud crept in from a rocky knoll

'twas ne'er their fate to fight, as the phantoms arrived for their Cornish Soul

Sea mist entombed the town with the smell of fear, death breath and spices

Finding what it needed, with its skeleton crew plundering, within dire guises

In the opaque haunting hours, of an autumn night, neath a lighthouse beam

Nothing living moved, as the sea mist took the spoils, with the dead unseen

Gravediggers dug the dirt, but on breezy days, they could smell spiced rum

Every body they buried, warmed their Cornish Souls, from ice cold to numb

Rain purged the mists, but they still heard the Dutchman's creaking timbers

So St Ives eyes scoured the sea, for a flag hoisted by a dead man's fingers