But first, a little backstory:

Edith: Meredith is Edith with Mer in front of it. Edith means rich war gift. Mer means sea. Meredith means rich sea war gift. Meredith is treasure. Meredith is a pirate’s name.

Me: Aaaarrrrrhhhhhh! Mad Meredith the Pirate Queen – silk-clad scourge of the seven seas. There’s a bodice-ripper plot for ya.

Edith: I’ll be sure to let Linda whatever her name is know. (Reference to Linda Berdoll who wrote a rather bodice-ripping sequel to Pride and Prejudice and is currently leaving snarky comments to bad customer reviews on Amazon.)

Me: Aaah… yeah. No. The problem with that one is that it was a bodice-ripper in disguise. People like to know what they’re getting into. I think Mad Meredith should be written by Fabio. (He’s got one pirate romance under his belt already.)

Edith: Umm.. ew.

Me: Yeah. So he’s not the greatest writer in the world, but he’s got pecs that could poke an eye out. (Hence Mad Meredith’s eye patch.) Is Mad Meredith Jewish too? “Ships ahoy vey?” (Hehehehe)

Edith: I think maybe you should write this one since you’ve got all the ideas.

Me: Perhaps Sarah Waters can write the pirate queen book. Might be interesting then….

Edith: That would be fantastic!!

Five minutes later and I’m thinking that there may be a rhyme coming on… perhaps a little she-sea-shanty.

Ode to Mad Meredith, Pirate Queen

Mad Meredith, the Pirate Queen,
She’ll cut your throat and eat your spleen.
She’s rougher than the worst of men,
A more feminine rogue there’s never been.

Mad Meredith, so slim and lean,
She’ll stop the fight so she can preen.
The worst of cads become her prey
For crossing her path on a bad hair day.

Mad Meredith, the Pirate Queen,
Can’t make her cook, can’t make her clean.
Her rapier wit is sharp and quick,
She’s one bad-ass butt-kicking chick.

Mad Meredith, with eyes so green,
And cleavage so deep it’s almost obscene.
That silk-clad form fools many a lord
And they find themselves at the end of her sword.

Mad Meredith, the Pirate Queen,
She’ll cut your throat and eat your spleen.
When she isn’t fixing you with her damnable glare,
She’s down below, washing her hair.