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A Pantoum
turtle
tortispullo

Song of the North

 

Hwaet Lo! A viking we shall go,

and all within Aegir’s reach

fear our axes as we reap

for the Norse do not sow.

 

So let all within Aegir’s reach

hide their women and their gold

for the Norse do not sow,

and when we fall, we fall to feast!

 

Let them hide their women and their gold

and dread the howling hordes advance

for when we fall we fall to feast,

and so risk the Maiden’s choosing glance.

 

Dread is the hordes howling advance

for as skalds will sing, they must surely know

we risk the Maiden’s choosing glance

to rise in flight above the gathered foe.

 

For as skalds will sing, they must surely know

that the chooser’s hands are cold and sweet

as they rise in flight above the gathered foe,

off to feast in the All Father’s keep.

 

A chooser’s hands are cold and sweet

honeyed braids so sweet like blood

off to feast in the All Father’s keep,

we see our corpses in the rusting mud.

 

Honeyed braids so sweet like blood,

her hands as soft and white as bone.

We see our corpses in the rusting mud

as the Valkyrie carry us home.

 

From Byzantine palaces to Danish snow,

all those within Aegir’s reach

fear our axes as we reap,

for the Norse do not sow.

 

Hwaet Lo! A viking we shall go

…a viking we shall go!