Drakkar comes,
Under wounded stars,
With bitterness,
Born and raised,
From the sourest milk,
Of Hel's rotting breasts.

Drakkar comes,
On storm stricken seas,
White horses reddened,
With Nazarene souls,
Made foam by fate,
And loyalties to feral beliefs.

Drakkar comes,
Baring the new flag of England,
The dragon's head gules,
Made tincture fast,
With the blood of saints,
And scurrilous revenge.

Drakkar comes,
He is the hope of ancient men,
Bringing flame and fury,
A proud new history,
Of Pagan beasts,
Ruthless,
Lascivious,
Drunk,
Untamed.

© DP Jones 11/06/10

published March 2011