O listen! Hear my timeless tale—
As I, thy faithful skald, unveil
A saga of a fateful trip!
I speak now of that swarthy Dane
Who in the tenth year of his reign
Set sail upon his dragon-ship.

For who can e’er forget their deeds?
Those fabled princes of the Swedes,
Yea, Ragnar Lothbrok and his sons!
Bjorn Ironside was the first—
In strength the best, in wits the worst
Compared to all the other ones.

Ivar the Boneless would e’er be,
Despite his disability,
Feared like lightning from the sky!
Behold the master of the sword—
There never was a Viking lord
Brave as Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye!

For Hvitserk’s temper was he known,
Aggrieved and bitter he had grown
For bearing such a mundane name.
But ne’er forget the youngest Dane,
So fair of mien and long of mane,
A gentle soul in lion’s frame—

Wenznar the Beardless, that clever Viking—
Naught could be more to his liking
Than touring strange and distant realms.
His brothers were inclined at most
To drink and brawl and even boast
How long the horns were on their helms!

The fiercest warriors alive,
The sons of Ragnar, six foot-five—
They spawned a reign of terror!
But he was of a bookish streak,
The only one who knew his Greek,
And thus his fateful error!

For when he learned their naval jaunt
Was heading for the Hellespont,
He thought they spoke of Priam’s Troy!
To his warlike skills, he’d add
His knowledge of the Iliad,
A yarn he truly did enjoy.

Thus while the Viking potentate
And eldest sons did navigate
Their ships into the Baltic Sea,
He pulled upon the starboard oar
And steered his mighty ship ashore
Upon the beach of Saxony.

And so began his southward quest
Equipped with slide rule in his vest
And bugle hanging from his baldric!
Across the lowland plains he tread
With songs upon his lips instead
Of raiding seaports in the Baltic.

He marched his way with lengthy stride
Into the German countryside—
Kilometers of elm and oak!
An early adopter was he ever
Of metric system rules of measure—
Of feet and miles he never spoke.

And when he reached the steep terrain,
He tripped and fell upon his brain,
Where’pon a knot was manifest.
And then, while kicking up a rumpus,
He bent the needle of his compass
And accidentally headed west.

He entered then, not by design,
That forest in the Valley Rhine
That one day he would call his home.
With faerie, dryad, and wood-sprite
The ’nchanted woods were his delight
Until he met the forest gnome.

A peevish churl, the ancient wight
Denied him access to the site
Where all the luscious berries grew.
For when in search of food he rove
By chance into that hallowed grove,
A frightful chase did then ensue!

Yes, from a squalid fungus growth,
The gnome emerged and spat an oath
And cast a curse upon the wind.
It was a curse of certain doom,
A harbinger of death and gloom—
The kind of curse one can’t rescind.

He heard a horn, a fearful blast,
That echoed from the distant past—
Still beckoning amiss.
And swiftly after came dread sounds—
Relentless baying of the hounds
From Hades’ deep abyss!

To perils dire, he was no stranger
Nor short of nerve in times of danger—
By no means short was he.
But vain bravado seemed to him
A trifle more than foolish whim—
Regardez l’homme d’esprit!

And while he raced through woods and bogs,
The howling of those spectral dogs
Grew louder yet with every stride.
He dodged and dashed with all his might,
But onward pressed his harrowing flight
Before the charge of Asgard’s Ride!

No Viking ever matched his run—
Least not until Fran Tarkenton,
So furious was the dread pursuit!
Tormented and fatigued was he,
His heartbeat raced relentlessly—
And all that for a taste of fruit!

At length the touch of dawn revealed
A passage to an open field—
Deliverance at last!
And from the edge of that plateau,
A watermelon patch below
He spied for his repast.

And having scored this bounteous heist,
He raised his axe and quickly sliced
Those melons into slabs of pulp.
He held a feast, a sumptuous gala,
Like Odin’s table at Valhalla,
And ate the melons, three per gulp.

A fact of history, nearly lost—
The chunks of rind he blithely tossed
Into the teeming riverway,
Rolling, twisting, serpentine,
And that’s what gave the river Rhine
The name by which it’s known today.

And high above that mighty stream,
To fortify his self-esteem,
He built his seat of power.
And in that castle of resplendence,
His haughty line of brave descendants
Ruled from the high tower.

He never sailed the sea again
Nor raided abbeys on the Seine—
He cared not one iota.
His Vikings lorded o’er the Rhine
Until the melon crops declined,
Then moved to Minnesota!

By Steve Nunes