The Word-Weapon

Intro

(Word-weapon! Word-weapon!)

The sword kills once — the verse kills forever...

(Hu-ha!) Kvasir's blood in the mead makes me better —

Óðrœrir running through every letter —

(Word-weapon!) The skald and the axe — cut from the same tether...

Verse 1

I stood in the shield-wall and I bled with the iron,

Came out the back-end with the verse I was stylin'.

Dróttkvætt locked and loaded — six beats per island,

Internal rhyme hitting hard while the body count's piling.

They bring the sword for the flesh — I bring the word for the name,

A king without a skald dies twice — body and fame.

Níð verse carved on a stick and I'm posting your shame —

The law says you're dead the same day that I frame.

Wound-dew on the kenning-field — that's blood in translation,

Battle-sweat of iron — the sword — no hesitation.

I'm the memory-keeper for every dying nation,

The deed dies with the doer without my narration.

Odin stole Óðrœrir — three sips through the ceiling,

Eagle-form escaping with the mead and the feeling.

Whatever dripped back down — that's the lesser revealing —

I got the three full draughts and I've been at it since healing.

Pre-Chorus

Before the carnyx sounds and the shield-wall tightens up (tightens up)

I'm already writing what'll fill the skald's cup.

Six syllables per line — alliteration's corrupt

Without the heiti stacked — the verse won't erupt. (uh!)

Chorus

Steel cuts the body — verse cuts through time (cuts through time!)

A king lives forever if I give him the rhyme (give him the rhyme!)

Níð on your bloodline hits harder than crime (harder than crime!)

The word-weapon loaded — every battle I climb! (Hu-ha!)

Verse 2

Egill at the block — axe already raised high,

Asked for one night's grace — they expected to deny.

One night, one verse, Höfuðlausn — head-price reply —

Twenty stanzas bought a head that wasn't meant to survive.

I watched that and understood what the craft really was:

Not the decoration on the warrior's cause —

But the cause itself — the law behind the laws —

The thing that makes the king afraid to drop the draws.

My heiti catalogue runs deeper than your war-chest,

My kenning density puts the skalds to the floor-test.

Wound-sea running red — that's blood at its forefront,

Raven-harvest thick — that's corpse at its most blunt.

I compose between the volleys of the spear-shower falling,

Verse-draft in my head while the death-dew is calling.

The axe in my right, dróttkvætt in the left-stalling —

Both weapons singing — that's the skald's art appalling.

Pre-Chorus

Before the carnyx sounds and the shield-wall tightens up (tightens up)

I'm already writing what'll fill the skald's cup.

Six syllables per line — alliteration's corrupt

Without the heiti stacked — the verse won't erupt. (uh!)

Chorus

Steel cuts the body — verse cuts through time (cuts through time!)

A king lives forever if I give him the rhyme (give him the rhyme!)

Níð on your bloodline hits harder than crime (harder than crime!)

The word-weapon loaded — every battle I climb! (Hu-ha!)

Bridge

You want to know what Kvasir tasted like?

(tell us...)

Wisest being ever made — gods mixed it right.

(mixed it right...)

Dwarves bled him in a vat — honey sealed it tight —

(sealed it tight...)

Whoever drinks the mead speaks nothing but the bright.

Three sips — eagle-throat — north from Jötunheimr —

(three sips...)

Every word I've ever dropped cost somebody's lifetime.

(every word...)

The verse that saves your name has to cost the maker

Something real — or it's just sound — just filler, just faker.

I paid in blood-field years and in shield-splinter hours —

(paid in blood...)

Now the Óðrœrir runs through these word-towers.

(through the towers...)

When I'm gone the verse remains in the stone-carve —

(Skál to the word! Skál — the blade of the skald-art!)

Drop — Instrumental

Chorus

Steel cuts the body — verse cuts through time (cuts through time!)

A king lives forever if I give him the rhyme (give him the rhyme!)

Níð on your bloodline hits harder than crime (harder than crime!)

The word-weapon loaded — every battle I climb! (Hu-ha!)

Outro

(Word-weapon! Word-weapon!)

The verse outlasts the stone...

(Hu-ha!)

Kvasir's blood in the bone.

Every king needs a skald —

Or the deed dies alone.

(Skál.)