In the cover of blackness
-of night and scant dress-
they boarded our vessel
and forced us to wrestle.

In each hand a gun
they knocked all us down,
all britches and garters
battling with no quarters.

They were not crazy,
not even old Daisy
even though the plump flower
charged five in an hour
again, as in her prime:
“like good ol’ times!”

We unsheathed our pride
and took on a stride,
but didn’t got too far
as they wouldn’t play fair:
with a few magic passes
they made of us asses.

We implored for mercy.
Even captain Percy
fell down to his knees
and asked “would you, please?”

We couldn’t stop braying,
as they went on paddling,
took our booty in their ship
and made away with it.

There you go, here I strove
to give an succinct impression
of when the oldest profession
took at war besides love.