Wild Hunt Bawl



Over the earth, on the orders of Odin,
Raging we ride, disrobed to our waists:
Daughters of slaughter, dealers of death –
Now, through a Norseman’s notions, half-nude,
Barely distinct from the blubbering boobies
Grabbed off the ground by this grunting gang:
Heroes in helmets that cover their head-hair,
Nothing before them but fighting and feasting;
No weary wiping of boar-blood and wine-spill,
Braving the blasts without even a bra.
Thunder of Thor!  And thoughts of thick underwear!
Boar-hidish boots to keep birds off our toes!
Arbo, at least you exhibit us aiming:
What are we shooting at, shrimp?  Are you sure?

Ruth S. Baker
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Ruth S. Baker would be pleased to hear them