The Fall of the Renfaire Republic, or, A Dream of Four Rivers 

to the tune of "The Roman Centurion's Song" by Leslie Fish

A Viking by the shoreline walked with ice upon his hair.

He wore his furs and battle-shield; he fought both well and fair.

But in this century where he lived, was his North Country real?

For Midgard had since passed away on time's unwearying wheel.

He and his friends long loved the old and played their roles well, all

a game, or maybe just a dream of Valhalla's ancient hall.

And when the governments all fell, they raised a Jarl great

and built a pretend nation on the rubble of our state.

But other actors had their goals and brutal modern ways,

and soon he found himself at war with ruthless rival gangs.

A leader called him to a duel; he brought his sword and ax,

but honor lost, for no skill can stop a gunshot through the back.

So he lay wondering by the sea, his blood on burnished sand;

for what had he long fought and strove—a fleeting fairy-land?

He saw at once what all he was—a child at his games.

How could he a true Northman be? Or was it all the same?

The lands the Vikings won and loved—just paper in the snow?

Wars in sagas and Eddas told—rehearsals without a show?

But then he saw on the churning sea a longboat rowing near,

and through a door saw the distant shore of ancient Nordland dear.

Then all the world before him spread—the four corners of earth,

and from each one a current runs since one Judean birth:

one from the East, one from the West, one from the Southern rift,

and through the sea runs the Northern stream where he himself did drift.

And in the stream the longboats rowed from times future and past:

The Northmen both by blood or dream, the first ones and the last.

But some were rowing 'gainst the stream, and rowed away to void,

while others fly with shining eyes to where the currents joined.

For at the meeting of the streams stood an ancient wooden cross,

and blood was dripping from the nails for every wrong and loss.

And there shone the King from Galilee, once dead, but now alive;

there was love and fire in his face and a question in his eyes:

"Will you row away to ne'er return and die in your own will?

For though your land was meaningless, I gave it meaning still;

Take my hand, for I know the way to the true Valhalla's hall

for I alone am your heart's true home and I AM the Jarl of All."

The Viking took the hand of the Son of Man, as the blood the ocean filled;

and he saw a light from a fathomless height as from a sun-cloaked hill.

In every stream was a half-formed dream—an echo of the truth,

and from every land to the Feast of the Lamb, they came to be renewed.

So, come you Gentile nations, all, and stream to Zion's hill,

for Ragnarok is crushed beneath Messiah's wounded heel.

In God's great mead-hall hang your swords to claim what you cannot earn,

for the Thanes of Christ will never die when the King one day returns.