Not every Icelandic saga is full of blood and guts

Gather ye and hear the tale
Of Flurgen Flurgensson the farmer
Whose adventure in the rugged ice fields
Is one of the lesser known dramas.

Did Flurgen Flurgensson one day set out
To count his many sheep
And in the rugged ice fields of Iceland
Did Flurgen Flurgensson have cause to peep

Upon the honest beauty of Netta
Who happened to be passing by
Did Flurgen Flurgensson then let out
The most plaintive heart felt sigh?

Said Flurgen Flurgensson to his sheep,
‘Her beauty will forever be out of reach.
That my heart should make a leap,
What lesson is this that fortune doth teach?’

That night he dreamed of shape shifting berserkers
And his heart was now a mess
He thought he’d better visit Netta’s father
And to him duly confess

That he could not live a moment longer
In a world in which they were apart
He’d give his right arm and perhaps six sheep
If she would give him her heart.

Upon the way on a cold spring day
With lambs a-bounce around him
Did Flurgen Flurgensson not come to his senses
With a thought that did truly confound him?

That he might lay down his conscience
And ask for the hand of sweet Netta
Only for her father to point out to her
That, really, she could do a whole lot better

For who was he but a lonely shepherd,
In charge of a straggling flock
And she was Netta whose beauty was radiant
And he was a bit of a cock.

So Flurgen Flurgensson prayed to the gods
And mighty powerful Thor
To come and save him from his predicament
A battle as fierce as war.

And did not Thor then speak to him,
And say, wait on the mountain top?
And within three nights the problem will be solved
And all your heartbreak stop.

So Flurgen Flurgensson climbed the hill
And waited three whole days
And amid the frostbite and Arctic winds
His eyes began to glaze

And the steel fingered wind it ravaged him
And existence then suddenly seemed to pass off
That every moment of every day
All he could think was, I’m freezing me arse off.

Back down in the valley to claim his sheep
Where the weather was slightly less freezier
He’d forgotten Netta even existed
Thanks to the cold induced amnesia.

And so he went then on his way
Memory loss had erased all his trouble
But he’d also forgotten his mother’s birthday.
She hit him with a shovel.

Author: Robert Garnham

Performance and spoken word artist.

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