You came in at 1015, an urbane Dane,
and it was all over
by 1035. Royalty. Blink and you’d miss it.
You landed at Sandwich
and fought your way up the estuary,
cutting out the white van men
with the dodgy flags. You went to the seaside
to paddle your feet
in the briny surf. You were Danish,
like local bacon. The tide
disobeyed you, that was your point.
Nobody got it.
But thanks for the history lesson, mate:
it was peaceful, they say,
Vikings settling down, not too much tax,
no bother with imminent elections,
merely a quick invasion, some decent pastries,
and time for a trip to the January sales
with your brother Fcuk.