Ode to the Two-Day Work Week

Tyr's heart was heavy one blustery day
for he had no source of merriment
the judge had ordered the war god pay
for six weeks of anger management.

Ever and always for battle he lusted
yet this was the world of well-fed
so lately his bow and sword, they had rusted,
all warriors he'd long since struck dead.

As he passed by a stall a voice cried out
a sound both ancient and clear
belonging to lips set in a full pout
and Tyr begrudgingly drew near.

Frijjo was spinning stories of lust
that she sold from her stall on the street
for the love-goddess knew that she must
pay the company to keep on her heat.

Tyr was awkward around her sex
for in ancient times they knew not war.
Women had always been able to perplex,
the war-god knew not what they were for.

"I see you also have had a bad fate,"
the woman said from her stall.
"The world is old and the hour is late,
and we no longer hold these people in thrall.

"The men battle pushing buttons in chairs
the genders stand in equality.
A god can succeed only if she dares
to sell her likeness for a royalty. "

"Times are hard all around," said Tyr,
"and I can't fault you for trying
but I cannot drown my sorrows in beer
and I produce nothing worth buying."

"My living is modest I will admit
and it's hardly a noble vocation
but I'm looking for help if you will submit
a valid employment application."

Tyr had no better idea that day
so he set down his sword and shield
and began to work for minimum pay
in a dead-end, hard-labor field.

But when Tyr does Frijjo's tasks
the week is almost through.
In that knowledge this poet can bask.
So a very Merry Christmas to you!