From the land of the Geats he came.
I know not why he believes he can do
What hundreds before him could not.
He will surely die in the attempt.
He boasts of his great deeds,
Secure in his belief that Grendel will fall to him.
The king fawns over him,
Sure that this Geat will do
What hundreds of Danes could not.
Is this not the same Beowulf
That risked his life on the open sea for a silly boast?
His foolhardiness should have killed him the first time.
My lord thinks too highly of this Beowulf, this mad jester.
Lo, the beast is slain.
The deeds of Beowulf are mighty indeed.
In the dark of the night did he slay Grendel,
Without even a blade.
The monstrous claw sits as the creature fled.
All Hrothgar's men rejoice as the feast continues.
But evil still lurks in the dark,
The evil from whence evil sprang.
A mother's love is fierce, yet the body is weak.
I loan Hrunting to the great hero,
That it too may be remembered for his deeds.
In the still morning,
Blood bubbles from the filthy creature's cesspool lair.
But the hero has vanquished the foe,
And the hall of Hrothgar is safe once more.