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.)
