Svefn-G-Englar
She wears rubber bands on her wrist.
Lithe. When she smiles mana emits,
full of Brennivin and Canada Mist.
Sunshine. Exuberantly tongue-tied,
freckles bely her Irish tinted bloodline.
Carefree and fair, blue eyed Madonna kin,
with hair full of honest whim,
fit with the crown of Ingólfur Arnarson,
hundreds of miles from Laki's lava bins.
Long and thin, her gaze is Longinus;
free's homonym,
a reprieve from the graying frosted dusk.
Her forefathers lived aboard a boat,
with the innards of those they'd put sword to throats,
and other torrid tropes, just
so she could be the toast of every Þorrablót lush.
Nordic rose blush, closed curtain soul crush,
all personality and perfect nose jut.
She encompasses the tides span,
on this Island, our hidden ray of hope.
An Elven employ, amid fried pans of dried flan,
Nature's tailor choice, once in a lifespan,
you can find Helen of Troy in the Bay of Smokes,
Reykjavic, sleepwalking through Iceland.