Davy Jones lives in a palmtree hut beneath Antarctica.
He smokes his pipe there, and plays the banjo when the crew aren't looking.
He has an army of crabs that cook lobster for him every night, and they prepare it wonderfully and it tastes like the constellations.
He knows that the center of the Earth is liquid iron, but knowledge and happiness sometimes don't go together.
He has a wife that speaks creole, that talks to the seals and never washes her face. She can make the sun go up or set, and she can bring people from the dead, because she invented voodoo.
They're not people. People can't live beneath Antarctica, because the weight of Antarctica is the weight of one's sins; and people would be crushed to death by the weight of their sins.
They're good with God Almighty, because he also speaks creole, and when Jesus came to the world he sailed on his cross all the way back to Jamaica. But he was always sober.
I wish to become seawater when I die. Then the currents may take me underneath Antarctica, and perhaps, only perhaps, if I get lucky, then all my sins will become awash.