Tyr throws a tongue in the furnace
It burns as a housewarming gift for the Moon
She waits with impatience
Dark forces surround her
She looks to the sun for her sustenance
A violent image from a televised fiction
Channels visions of hope for
The foolish and sheepish
The holiday Viking
In his hot bath tub sprawling
Sings a song while he plays with his
Little model long ship
Wild visions he dreams
Of the conquest of maidens
Midst the casual dispatching of
Giants and trolls
Then embarks to the hive
For the camaraderie
The safety
And the courage of honey and blood
Drawn from pen pricks
Freya is not there
Never has been
Nor will be
She bristles at the thought
Of such vile indignation
She knows the brave god
In there will be found not
Having heard while in passing
Sacred names passing
From lips mixed with the vomit of
Profane degradation
She just keeps on passing
For a brief moment pausing
To laugh at their manhood
Their impudence
Her gold mesh scarves she will move on to hang
In the
Great Hall of Heroes
Where Tyr waits with his hounds
As for Hel she will leave it as a
Hangout for zeroes, for the knaves
And those small limp-dick ones
