I arm myself with punch lines and a big old water gun.
Wasting away again in Margaritaville, searching for my lost shaker of salt.
It's a fine line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.
Lights are glowing in the palm trees.
Maybe there is another who sees life not as a flickering candle but as a torch that can illuminate an undiscovered world.
Yes, I am a pirate two hundred years too late.