THE SAGA OF SNORRI SNARLGURGLESSON
by Addisonius Furius

Snorri Snarlgurglesson -
Great warrior King,
Greatest Spear-Dane,
Sword-scabbard buckled,
Battle-axe polished,
Buttons neatly arranged,
Flugsvamp-chewing,
Mead-wine-guzzling,
Saga-singing,
Sword-swinging,
Spear-clinging,
Fighting man he -
Sailed forth in his war-ship,
Known as 'Old Betsy',
His mad captain piloting,
Cutting through mist
Like a hot knife through butter;
Plunging through dark clouds
Miasma-enveloping,
Woolly-mammoth remains surrounding,
Approaching that bog-site
Well known to the Geats
As "Smelly, Filthy Hole",
Shouting "Come forth!"
In his native language
(Yes, Danish, not English)
To the foul monster therein.

Giles the Monster,
A sickening creation,
Most disgusting to look at -
For he looked like a slug -
Snorted in the air
As he gobbled a shepherd -
Old Harald Woollypantyhose -
Smacking his blood-lips
As he finished the feast.
"Come forward, Snorri,
You stupid dolt-Dane,
You little bag-o-chum,
You son-of-a-motherless-goat,
You filthy landlubber,
You dumb kneecap-biting
Prissy old Viking!
You quaffer of mead,
Proud tamer of horse-flesh,
You barbarian looney,
You toffee-nosed-twit!
Your mother was a weasel
And your father a stoat
And your brother's named Herbert
And your sister? - She's Goat!
Your sword is real pointy,
Aye, that is true,
But you daren't use it
'Gainst such a fierce beastie!
I, Giles the Monster,
Am impervious to such wounds,
Off-spring of Cain, yes,
And damned such as he!
No sword e'er forged
Can cut through my flesh;
No dagger e'er weilded
Can stab me to death!
You'd better forget it:
It just isn't worth it,
To chase me around
And try to kill me.
So go home, you nitwit,
Back to your meadhalls,
To write stupid ballads
And drink lots of booze.
Forget about ever
Becoming a warrior,
You don't have it in you -
I think you're a sissy!"
And he mooned him right there.

"Ooooh," said Snorri,
"That maketh me angry!
I am waxing wroth
And filling with rage!"
And he fired an arrow
In Giles's general direction,
But it didn't do much
And he felt like a failure.
"All right, OK, then,
I'm coming! So beware
Of my fatal sword-swinging!
I'll cleave off your head
'Fore you can say 'Momma'
Or 'Mercy, Great Snorri'
Or 'Heaven's sake, that hurts'
Or 'I've got an appointment'
Or some other excuse,
Or even 'Hey, look, by your feet,
There's a shiny new penny!'
Or maybe an insult
As salt to my wounds!"
And Snorri the warrior,
Bold blood-thirsty Spear-Dane,
Ran forth across marsh-field,
Battle-sword clutching
(Which he named, by the way,
"Cecil the Broadsword",
In an endearing way
Of showing affection
For the fierce war-blade
That had seen him through action
At the Battles of Hedeby,
Little Ragborg,
And bloody Smurg Field),
Blood-teeth-chattering,
Quaint saga-singing
(Remembering his ancestor
Victor the Viking,
Who was most famous
For wearing long-undies
In unseasonable weather
To mock at his foe),
His heart locked on blood-shed,
His mind set on avenging
The many injustices
Done 'gainst his people
By Giles the Monster
In days long ago,
And even at present,
And those in the future
If he were to fail
And not slice off his head.

Needless to say,
He slew the caddish monster,
As everyone expected,
And then he went home,
Singing real loudly
About his great vict'ry
Until he was poisoned
By some bitter rival,
As usually happens
In songs such as these.

THE END