Sometimes all that it takes, Sigyn you know all too well,
is just one bad day and a single match tossed
to bring the whole shithouse burning down.
Everyone focuses on Laufey’s son, brand him
a dangerous troublemaker and hold you up
as his support and longsuffering, dutiful spouse
– and sure, you are – but do they ever stop to consider
what sort of Goddess that sort of God would wed?
Oh, you love to laugh, and often he would make you –
but you love watching the powerful squirm even more,
especially when what they most wish to remain secret
is brought into the light. And you would don masks with him,
and roam the streets together in noisy revel, egging him on
to perform more clever and daring pranks, jokes
and assorted buffoonery until he went too far.
Nor did you leave his side when the brawling started,
but instead drew your blade and leapt right in,
kicking more Æsir than ever your husband did,
and biting more too! What, do people think your name
just an ironic sobriquet – it’s truth in advertising,
and you’ve more than lived up to it. When the Jötnar
stormed Ásgarðr in retaliation for the flyting of Þjazi
you took up ash-spear and buckler to fend them off
and sent three or possibly four to Hel just by yourself.
So hail to you, Goddess of the mighty arm and withering laugh,
and Sigyn I pray, stand with us in our time of distress
and protect this home just as fiercely from all its foes,
mortal and otherwise.