Oh, erudition!

They feted face to face, and struck
their fists against the mouldering wood;
While Mollie dangled, lost for luck
on yardarm from the crow's-nest looming penis-top.

At least, at last she'd fly, she thunk,
as wind-draft battered at her cloak;
Below the two had torn a chunk
of railing off the fo'c'sle for their mini jousting tournament.

The fated raven flew, and yea
returned not to their silly ship;
Poor sober Mollie gave a bray
when the assholes down below got out a bottle of single-malt scotch, still ignoring her.