They Burn our crops AND steal our maids.

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I kindof liketobe a bit unexpected sometimes. So when our 9th grade Pre-IB World History class was assigned to write a letter or poem or something to someone or something (was it that important?) I decided to have a little musical fun. Probably the first good thing to ever have me singing and playing guitar and recorder.

Alas, Dearest Lord! Will ye not look around?
I feel ignored; I spend my nights on the ground.
A fire doth burn, kindled by my last pair of clothes.
The children don’t learn, but then what is there to know?

Ah, those Viking raids, thine Viking raids, thine Viking raids.
They burn our crops, and steal our maids.
It n’er may help to say, “we sometimes get paid.”
We doth work so hard whilst you sleep in the shade.
Ah, those Viking raids.

Good God deliver! I crieth out for sanctuary.
I think there’s a hole in my liver; I’ve felt bad since January.
I hang ’round the farm, pushing my one scrawny ox,
I lost me left arm, methinks I got the pox.

Ah, those Viking raids, thine Viking raids, thine Viking raids.
They burn our crops, and steal our maids.
It n’er may help to say, “we sometimes get paid.”
We doth work so hard whilst you sleep in the shade.
Ah, those Viking raids.

Monks carry on thy chanting whilst us dogs keep panting, will no one bring a bit of relief?
There be some talk of treason, but hark the hell- it be the season.
It seems like all the pope wants is to change our belief.

Why won’t thee, answer our plea?