Dead Man's Fingers

Down in a moonlit Cornish cove the Dutchman's crew were washed ashore
Ethereal figures from a creeping sea mist, seeking trove from a man-o'-war
And stealthily they climbed the cliffs, on the way to a distiller's lair in St Ives
Drifting spice laced spirits were there, to claim the dark souls of others lives
Mariners hid away, in the local inns, some relaxed in houses and the Shack
All supped, from a dead man's skull, under flags of the white cross on black
None the wiser were they, as an ominous shroud crept in from a rocky knoll
'twas ne'er their fate to fight, as the phantoms arrived for their Cornish Soul
Sea mist entombed the town with the smell of fear, death breath and spices
Finding what it needed, with its skeleton crew plundering, within dire guises
In the opaque haunting hours, of an autumn night, neath a lighthouse beam
Nothing living moved, as the sea mist took the spoils, with the dead unseen
Gravediggers dug the dirt, but on breezy days, they could smell spiced rum
Every body they buried, warmed their Cornish Souls, from ice cold to numb
Rain purged the mists, but they still heard the Dutchman's creaking timbers
So St Ives eyes scoured the sea, for a flag hoisted by a dead man's fingers