When I was young, I thought with my silver tongue, that the world
was my oyster, but Andvari’s treasures are cursed, and Brisingamen
is won through lies. Gift for a gift, well I am the gift for gods,
hair like hearth, wit and humor, jester and trickster and fool.
I exist so that you and a million other lips can sew mine shut.
And neither Angrboda’s strong arms nor Sigyn’s caresses can whet
my madness, chained for the two-man con, so that Yggdrasil would
blossom with mistletoe, I whispered in Hodor’s ear, “Aim true.”
But the blindness of the Aesir are what have driven me broken
and cracked, there’s a hole in my brain you see, it lets the