Valhalla Words and music by Leslie FishSigurd was an Odin man, the last of pagan kind, For churchmen ruled the countryside and all men they could find. Yet Sigurd prayed to Odin god with heart and soul and mind In hopes that he would reach Valhalla. Sigurd died in battle, crying "Odin!" to the last. Beyond the reach of churchmen's Heaven his soul speeded past. But when he reached the Bifrost Bridge he found the gates barred fast. Alas, no entry to Valhalla! Odin's voice called to him then, "The gate I'll not unbar, For we are under siege; with churchmen's Heaven we're at war, Yet I shall keep my pledge to you--though you must wander far-- Still I shall bring you to Valhalla." The winds of time took Sigurd then, and whipped him down the years. They burned away his memories of love and hope and fears, And left him as a new born babe whose foremost cry and tears Were for lost promise of Valhalla. This age and name fit ill on him. He grew to man's estate A thoughtful, bookish, lonely lad who felt betrayed by fate, Who dreamed and read and oft regretted he was born too late For the age of Odin and Valhalla. He came upon Anachronists who kept the ancient skills. Gladly did he join with them, and practiced with a will, For he felt an old hope stirring as he persisted still. A long step closer to Valhalla. He called himself "Lord Sigurd" now. He dressed in black bearskin. He hastened through his duties to his mundane work and kin. For in the weekend combat he could feel the veil wear thin 'Til it seemed he could almost reach Valhalla. In time he won a baron's rank. The folk bowed down before. At length a herald rose and said, "Milord, you could do more. Pray bring your skills with us this year out to the eastern War. It's the next best thing to old Valhalla." So Sigurd went to War that year, and stared at what he found: The ancient garbed and armored folk, the clanging battleground, The market place, the mead halls, and the campsites sprawling 'round And he felt time shift him to Valhalla. For look, the warriors battled there so merrily all day, And maidens resurrected every one the strokes would slay, Then at the mead hall they would feast and sing the night away Oh, it fit all descriptions of Valhalla! 'Twas true it wasn't perfect; there was War but twice a year, With lesser revels once a month in kingdoms far and near, And all the dreary lesser days, the mundane world was here But it was close enough to call Valhalla. Be careful what paradise you deal What hope you make other dreamers feel For if too many hear it They will struggle to draw near it And in the search they just might make it real! So every War and revel now, go to the feasting hall And there you'll find a Viking lord named Sigurd standing tall And giving thanks to Odin for the pledge kept after all Singing, "Yo ho, welcome to Valhalla!" For we have made our own Valhalla For we are the builders of Valhalla.