The Wyrd rubbed off on my shoulder
In time to the rhythmic chanted spell
The Bwiti in a bucket pointing clearly
Back to the Cradle of Civilization.Women, men, kin.
Traipsing merrily across the field
Surely tasting the blood of natives
The Black Hawk Injun reminding me
Of those who settled first these lands.Women, men, kin.
Sifting potatoes from the garden
For a stew in a cauldron of plenty
An Irish staple added to local fish
Improving on famines gone by.Women, men, kin.
Jovially rebutting computer denizens
Blanket fissures of squabbling sorrow
Bring yet another thrashing to bear
On Ulster rebels casting aspersions.Women, men, kin.
How bookish and studied you looked
While your children set out on boats
Making music i never got to sample
Assimilative to your Jewish ear.Women, men, kin.
The Wyrd rubbed off on my shoulder
In time to the rhythmic chanted spell
Runes of Viking driven into my spirit
By the beards of my kin, i ever endure.Women, men, kin.
Penultimate varieties of the 57
Concealed by covers of Black Dutch
The Coat of Arms of the mutts
A confluence of aggrandized mongrels.Women, men, kin.
Note: in response to a poem of T. J. Hafer.(c) nagasiva yronwode 2010