Sonnet 91

The oarsmen, grunting, heave; and now they row.
Nietzschean Vikings, later on the necks
of monks to whet their blades, erstwhile must go
meek ’mongst the elderly of either sex.
These do not pander to the outward forms
of sage, being garrulous and in the way.
Now Eidur frets and Sven inwardly storms.
They find, downstairs, a fjord. Whereof, coins pay
for heroes, whom its cubits twenty-five
Urd heedlessly, or Skuld, propels along
and back anon. ’Tis writ: we’re not to dive.
Nor are the tunes like Volga boatmen’s song,
but jangling fuckery played far too loud
for Aquaerobic’s geriatric crowd.