I may be wrong, but though they’re long
the days I live, I’m living wrong
since any way I spend my days
they aren’t how I hope to play
or laugh or love or lurch or lust
in fact I’d say this year’s a bust
for since the start I’ve had no part
of partaking in that work of art.
A creature fine, close to divine,
as godlike as some ancient wine
or maybe mead or ale or beer?
I don’t know what Norse drink, I fear.
But I’d wish to know now, that’s for sure.
The things I hope to learn for her
are manifold. Her locks of gold
make me want to hear tales told
about her people and then show
her all the things that I now know.
Oh this lady, hearty hale!
Allow me, to you, now regale:
That Viking chick! It makes me sick
how much I want to stick my wick
into her flame. That frigging dame
is so damned hot I’m nigh insane.
The way she moves, that pirate bitch
makes my upper nethers itch
and how she scowls just like the Norns
instills a wish to twist my horns.
Her legs so strong, her shoulders wide.
What she could do to me inside
her ship is inestimable.
Were we in Spain, and she a bull
and I the fittest toreador,
she’d tear me into into pieces more
than I could ever wish to count.
That mare’s one ride I’d pay to mount!
Gods bless that giant Viking girl
whose thighs could shuck an oyster’s pearl
straight to a string upon her neck
– another body part she’d brek
should I speak once out of line
for she is righteously divine.
Like a hero she’d behave
though I would serve her as slave.
I hope someday she finds in meeth
a sword to slap within her sheath.
And thus to Valhalla I sing
praise for this hot Valkyr/Viking.