Thought I'd have another go at the poetic shit.
Having enjoyed the movie.
At least it wasn't ART.

Heaney's Beowulf
(The Canburgh Fragment)

So. The English, in our day's year,
Have lost the poet's tongue most dear.
Now in meadhalls we chant alone
The pagan beat o'er the whaleroad's foam
Doosh, doosh, doosh, doosh.
Sad at heart, meadful, unmindful,
We address our companions as Unferth would:
With unkenning sagas, we think ourselves sages
And lose the strength of the warrior's grip.
Then swings the havoc o'er the heath.
Then comes the monster lurking beneath.
The havoc, the monster, are but our fate.
That wyrd we dree, lacking our faith.
Burnished helms, furnished homes:
Gleaming swords, dreaming words:
Sunday times, diamond mines.
Shares in these replace our cares.
Endure all woes, the saying goes.
Hwæt. Internæt English lives
Though English itself is done and dead.
This Irish poet tells us what
And how to read....

Sledge