Aye mateys, I be betting that by now you is guessed that Morgan she went on strike. Yar, she still caught her a rat or three, but only for her own dining pleasure. Elsewise she sat in the corner throwing the crew the look that sez to them it sez, “Rats? What rats?” while rat tails they be peeking out from behind her. The rats themselves they be getting fat on all they pirate grub.
“Stap me vitals those rats they be eating us out of ship and…er, ship.” The cook grabbed a few rat traps outta the hold. He not be wanting to waste food so he be baiting them with rope cooked in oil and covered with salt and pepper. Yo ho ho, some of they rats with dim bulbs where they brains shoulda been fell for it. The cook he chopped them in pieces and cooked up a vat of some mess he called “Rat-A-Stewy.” The crew they not be swallowing that load of bilge. They cried “Rat-A-Phooey” and threw it back at him. One swabby piped up, “We’d rather eat our boots. They be like roast beef, right? They both be coming from cows.”
“Fine.” The cook grabbed a pair of boots that’d belonged to some poor lubber who’d got himself lost at sea. He pounded those boots with his trusty mallet, whacked them up with his trusty cleaver, and boiled them in salt water overnight with 7½ glugs of cooking rum. Next morning he dished it up. “Here be Boot Au Rhum. Eat hearty, me buckos.” The crew they be chewing up a bite or two of boot, then they be pounding they forks on the table and shouting something. Be it kiss the cook or kill the cook? The whole poop it be revealed next time.