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Wyrd: Grendel's Lament

A senile Anglo-Saxon people
	wrote long tales of
my evil creeping from moors
	raiding the mead-halls
of Hrothgar's Danes and crushing
	pagan thanes with my
huge hands.  I still remember
	Denmark, heathen land
with its gods of Asguard
	and the kind dreams of 
Valhalla and fears of Muspellhiem.
	They called me "seed
of 'Ymir" or "child of Loki"--
	later they told their
children I was a "descendent of Cain"
	I recall that Geat
Earl, Beowulf, Higlac's man,
	who sailed across from
Sweden on his own personal
	Ragnarok. I still feel
the sharp pain as he ripped 
	the limb that no
sword even could.  Remembered,
	we are both--In
the Herot mead-hall where
	my are hung listless
and on the tongues of scups and bards.
	We are remembered,
as lukewarm  textbook literature and
	stupid old myths.
Christian plagiarists, who crushed
	more thanes than I
wrote about us leaving out
	Odin, Freya, and Tiu.
These pious scribes unabashedly added
	"Glory to god" and
various other trite, godly sermons
	to our legend.
The Gods die, but man lives, and
	as Beowulf, himself, said:
"Let fate unwind as it must."

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