Soldiers stood in their gazillions, on hot mountain plain,
There to deal out such violent death; yet others to be slain.
With mighty lengths strode McRacas, the defender of the faith
And with his great sword of ice cold steel, he cut deaths awesome swathe.
Ignoble acts strewn that day, across a field of savage war,
Many good men then met their death, in battle of blood and gore.
The action scene was vile and cruel, with McRacas at the head,
Up to his knees in wounded men, piled still high upon the dead.
His whistling sword could be heard for aeons, as he mighty slew,
So the pile of dead of Viking horde, just grew and ever grew.
Britain the land of his birth, and its Sovereign was his Lord
He would defend its very soil, with his mighty whistling sword.
Victory was theirs that day, although glory never their claim
Britons crushed this ravaging tide, and so held high their fame
The Vikings would ever rue their lust, for pillaging and rape,
And folk of today still talk, of McRacas the fighting ape.