Ahar, me hearties, tis September 19th, the day when all ye scurvy landlubbers can talk like we swashbuckling sea dogs!
So no more talk of gold pieces or longswords - tis pieces of eight and cutlasses today. I'll be drinkin' rum in Port Royal afore raising the Jolly Roger and settin' sail for a raid on a Spanish galleon or two.
Last one up the old sea dog gets a lick of the cat!
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