"Tale of the Bucolic Buccaneer"

He pillaged turnip fields,

not galleons—

a terror to scarecrows,

a scourge of hayricks,

his cutlass nothing more

than a sharpened hoe.

The villagers whispered:

he sails no seas,

only the pond behind the mill,

commandeering a rowboat

with a flag stitched from laundry.

Yet he swaggered,

boots muddied with conquest,

pockets jingling with stolen apples,

declaring each orchard

a colony of his crown.

And when the sun set,

he retires to the tavern,

ordering milk with a pirate’s growl,

boasting of battles

against windmills and geese.

So the tale endures:

not every buccaneer needs

cannon or coast— sometimes

the plunder is laughter itself,

and the map leads

only to the next meadow.

.