Collecting Bottles with Theodolf of Hvine
:::::Bottles and cans, clap your hands:::::
:::::- Beck Hansen:::::
Next to the front door of a large
government building, Theodolf
drops a limp hand into a garbage can
and swishes a few plastic bags
filled with air. He pushes his jangly cart
along the streets. No king will hear him.
(The strophe was killed a long time ago.
This poem has no inclination to sing
an allitereated spine in honour
for those who quote essays.)
You be quiet, says Theodolf, ye'r being rude to an old master.
The poem doesn’t see him strophing
for his song is a cart that rattles
to the bottle depot.
A staff cut with runes
ordered by a dying skald
made no difference
to Theodolf of Hvine.