You would think a pirate’s parrot has the best perch in the land,
With a bird’s eye view of mayhem from the shoulder where he stands,
With adventure and excitement rolling o’er the briny sea.
Yes, a parrot lives a dashing life—unless, of course, you’re me.
From the first day I was brought aboard, I had my share of doubts.
There were no cries of “Avast, ye dogs!” No screams or songs or shouts.
Not a single plundered village, not a single conquered ship,
Just some tuneless happy humming in my ear from Cap’n Chip.
Cap’n Chip is not the biggest, Cap’n Chip is not too mean,
Cap’n Chip weighs in at ninety pounds—he’s barely seventeen.
Well, he never says “Me hearties,” and he rarely shouts “Ahoy!”
Instead, if he’s excited, it’s “Gee Golly!” or “Oh BOY!”
Every day he hoists the flag, and every day it’s something dull—
Books where bones are supposed to be, a snail where there should be a skull.
When he should be chasing wenches, stealing treasure, drinking grog,
He prefers to read, drink tea, and then spell-check the captain’s log.
Both his legs are still attached, and neither hand has got a hook,
And he’ll never shiver timbers with that wide-eyed nervous look.
Cap’n Chip brings out a parasol to shade himself at beaches,
And of all the pirate parrot names, he likes to call me “Peaches.”
Oh one day the tide will turn, my friends, one day I’ll seize my chance,
When the Cap’n’s planting herbs again, or learning ballroom dance.
First I’ll call the crew and promise a true pirate’s life that’s bolder,
Then I’ll rule them with an iron beak—and Chip upon my shoulder.