There once was a young lad, strong as can be,

Undefeated by bow and sword was he.

He’d charge into battle, reckless and brave,

No matter how many, never afraid.

His blade was like lightning striking his foes,

His shield like a mountain blocking all blows.

After each battle he’d come to my bar.

For you see my lads, its never too far.

He’d celebrate his victory with drink,

His face would turn red, to the floor he’d sink.

Yet he’d drink more, till on the ground he slept.

He’d wake in the morning, and sometimes he wept,

And he would be in a terrible mess.

He’d sleep for a day and be none the less.

Then back into battle he’d charge again

Then back to my pub to make some new friends.

It was during this time, after a fight,

On a snowy Scandinavian night,

That the lad was found drunk, propped on a stool,

And of himself he was making a fool.

He bragged loudly about his bast battles,

The ale would pour and his tongue would waggle.

This was the way these things normally went,

My patrons would listen till he was spent.

For down at my bar they love a good tale,

And this young lad’s voice would always  prevail.

But tonight there was a new listener,

A man from abroad, a small foreigner.

His fists were clenched and his face red with rage,

Yet the lad kept on his verbal parade.

If his eyes weren’t so clouded with the ale,

The resemblance to the foe from his tale,

Would make itself clear on the strangers face.

But he kept going at a breakneck pace.

“The foe died before my feed,” he boasted,

“here’s to my strength!” and then they all toasted.

This was too much for the strangers short wit,

And eh jumped to his feet in quite a fit.

“That foe you speak of,” he shouted with rage,

“Was my brother, only eighteen of age!”

“You struck him down without a care or thought,”

“Just as with all others you have fought,”

“Now I have come here to seek my revenge!”

It seemed that the man was truly unhinged.

The lad just laughed, his mind addled with drink.

“Revenge will be yours? Is that what you think?”

“You know nothing of me my tiny friend,”

“Thousands of men to their deaths I did send,”

“All were much bigger and stronger than you.”

“But if you wish, I will kill you too!”

The lad got to his feet with a stumble,

Grabbed on his chair so he wouldn’t tumble.

He pulled out his sword with a drunken spin,

And here the small man adopted a grin.

“It’s true that you send men to their deaths,”

“But no one, while there is drink on your breath,”

“Has met their doom by the sword in your hand.”

“Stop talking and fight,” was the lad’s command.

The small man chuckled and drew a small blade.

He knew the lad’s sight would begin to fade.

And sure as the snow, the lad tried to strike,

But missed and fell to the ground like a tike.

Were he not drunk, the man would be dead,

But instead the small man chopped off his head.

And so the strong lad that never did think,

Was defeated by ale, brew, and by drink.