Ivar The Boneless And The Gypsy Moon Poem by Captain Cur

On her maiden flight, long silken threads are gently spooled
then spun into a silver garb for the Gypsy Moon,
and she dances to the touch, gracing the skies above,
warmed by the probing rays of a young enamored Sun.

Seductive are those hands that stroke the earthen shores,
flowing through her lofty heart, beats never felt before;
pulling with her virgin breast, waves rise reverently,
in tidal passage they profess their homage to the sea!

The Great Heathen Army in eight hundred sixty-four
led by Ivar Ragnarsson wintered near Danelaw;
he and his brothers raided, and drank from the English lakes,
avenging their father Ragnar, thrown to a pit of snakes.
In York, Ælla, the King of Northumbria was found,
captured by Ivar, who made him lie facing the ground.
Killing Ælla, Ivar claimed he heard a morning dove sing
pulling his lungs out through his back forming angelic wings.
Ivar the Boneless hobbled, born with very weak legs,
though he made Europe tremble during the Viking Age.
A conqueror builds kingdoms with flawed imperfect hands,
and those weak foundations are the legs on which they stand.

In caravans of color the Gypsy Moon will pass;
the Sun, on his mighty seat, lighting her lovely path;
and she dances with a love, a love never felt before,
though the Age of Man will end, the Sun and Moon endure.