What was it made you want to make land here, my friend,
And bury your treasure in these sands?
What compelled you to feel these shores offered
Such certain security for your ill-gotten gains?
This one tiny island surely cannot be dug upon by another,
You so vainly assume.
The island asked not for your deposit nor coveted such,
Yet the island shall be burdened nonetheless.
You demand with veiled congeniality, my friend,
That the location and contents of your treasure never be revealed.
“Promise me” you say. “Promise me!”
Now the island is your abettor against its will.
Your treasure will remain buried on that island,
Sullying its once clean sands and soil.
When your atrocities come to light, my friend,
The island will be assumed every bit as culpable as you.