Ahoy, me hearties! Gather ’round an’ hear a yarn o’ woe and disgustin’ wretchedness that will make ye scrub yer decks and check under yer bunks in sheer paranoia.
’Twas a day not unlike this, nigh eighteen year gone, when I watched o’er a babe, name o’ Wren, by me onesie. The wee lass got into mischief like unto no other. Mischievous, she was, an’ always just out o’ reach. With her flame-red hair and snappin’ black eyes, no loot remained safely buried fer long.
That day, young Wren crawled across a sea o’ blue carpet, plunderin’ an’ terrorizin’ in general. Bein’ a young lass, meself, I perhaps was not keepin’ a weather eye on her. As soon as me aft was turned, th’ cabin became suspiciously quiet. I turned back to see Wren’s chubby legs disappear behind a cap’n’s chair.
Wren was up t’ no good.
And it was so horrid, so gut-wrenchin’, that I was hard-put t’ watch, much less deal wi’ her meself.
For when I rounded th’ chair and found th’ wee lass, she appeared t’ be masticatin’ somethin’ or other, and wasn’ anythin’ innocent, like doubloons or other such booty.
Shiver me timbers—li’l Wren was chewin’ on a scurvy cockroach! It was gone t’ Davy Jones’ locker, at least. However, I challenge ye t’ pry open th’ jaws o’ any mobile infant and try t’ force her t’ comply wi’ yer wishes. Gutless, I screamed to e’en make the bilge rats quiver. Wren’s mum smartly came t’ th’ rescue and attempted t’ open her maw wide. Wi’ said task complete, it was e’en more o’ a challenge t’ remove th’ chewed up bits o’ crushed insect from th’ wee babe’s tongue. Finally, only a leg or two remained stuck t’ her tastebuds, where some say they remain, even t’ this very day.
And so I say t’ ye, when ye entrust yer babes t’ th’ care o’ young wenches, always make aye and swab yer decks first.