This twisted poem, unsullied by anything remotely resembling authenticity
or historical accuracy, was in fact inspired by the Icelandic Sagas, which
are actually glorious pieces of literature. I suggest you read them. In
the meantime, read this. Do not attempt to emulate any of the feats
described herein.

The Ballad of Thorkel the Strangler

Chorus:
Pillage the village and drown the town,
Harry the peasantry up hill and down.
Leave no stone unturned, no cottage unburned:
Hail to victorious Thorkel the Strangler!

A Viking was he
He sailed the North Sea
From Trondheim on over to York.
Though skilled with a sword
(Which he'd swing at a word),
He'd poke out your eyes with a fork.

Chorus.

His hair was like flame,
His beard, just the same,
His name feared throughout the known lands.
He'd steal all the gold
And then, it is told,
He'd strangle his foe with bare hands.

Chorus.

A formidable ship,
His sea-steed would slip
Through the thundering fingers of foam.
He'd plunder and kill,
Then away he would steal,
And eat a whole ox once at home.

Chorus.

Neither Sigurd nor Sven
Nor Gisli the Thin
Could defeat him or lessen his wrath.
He slew sixty men
With a goosefeather pen,
Then shrugged, "Well, they got in my path."

Chorus.

To his hall he returned,
Watched the fire as it burned,
And began of his exploits to boast.
His wife, she did tire
Of suff'ring his ire,
So she slipped some nightshade in his roast.

He pillaged the village and drowned the town,
And harried the peasantry uphill and down.
Left no stone unturned, no cottage unburned:
Farewell to that horrible Thorkel the Strangler.