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written by Graham Fredricksen
I met him on a Petrie street
He'd been marooned two hundred years.
He said his name was Pirate Pete -
The Last of all the Buccaneers.
He wore a Long John Silver hat.
He only saw through one good eye.
A bird upon his shoulder sat
As he sang to passers by
He strummed upon an old guitar
And sailed once more his gallant crew;
And ever-wise, that white galah -
oops!! Sorry....'twas a cockatoo -
Sat sagely up against his ear,
And listened to the tales unfold;
The stories but a buccaneer
Could sing of seas and buried gold.
We saw the top-sails catch the breeze
The bowsprit dipped and rolled and swayed
The Jolly Roger ruled the seas
With canon-ball and sabre blade.
His ship went down in 'Ninety-nine
A Man-O-War had holed the deck
And so he braved the boiling brine
That cockatoo clung to his neck.
He sang a storm of days of old,
And sea shanties he loved the best.
the people passing threw their gold
Into his opened treasure chest.
It overflowed there at his feet
As dollars danced to his guitar;
And as I watched old Pirate Pete,
I knew then he was no galah
