Oh Ragnar’s in the woodshed, pray don’t knock the door! He’s whisperin’ to Uleria and mutterin’ for more. He said he’d fetch some firewood but brought none back at all— The only log he’s workin’ with ain’t sittin’ in the hall! Now Theros saw him slippin’ there, with that sly old grin, He winked and said, “He’s scouting—storms are comin’ in.” When asked by Auntie Emma, “Where’s that lad so fair?” Theros just shrugged and muttered, “Probably wrestlin’ a bear.” Oh Ragnar’s in the woodshed, with straw upon his knees, He’s chantin’ little verses and givin’ thanks with... ease. He claims it's for the goddess, just sacred love and light, But we all know what Ragnar does alone on Greydog night! Now Yorgi, bless his merchant’s head, was countin’ sacks of grain, “Did Ragnar say he’s gone somewhere? Perhaps to forge a chain?” He’s pricing out the firewood, he’s tallyin’ the stock— Oblivious that Ragnar’s got his own wood in a lock! Barlos sips his cider slow, with that knowing look, He sniffed the air and softly said, “Something’s steamed and cooked.” He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, then turned and looked away— “It ain’t my place to question how young warriors pray...” Oh Ragnar’s in the woodshed, with devotion in his hand, He’s offerin’ to Uleria—his grip is strong and grand! And if the logs are creakin’, and there’s moanin’ in the eaves, Just say a prayer and walk away, give lovers space to breathe! Then Olaus stood up puzzled, with furrowed, righteous brow: “He’s been in there for half the day! Is he carving idols now? Should I go and ask him? Should I fetch his blade?” But Yorgi said, “No, check the trade route west instead...” Oh Ragnar’s in the woodshed, by moon and early morn, He’s honorin’ the goddess how all young lads are born. So if you see him walkin’ back with straw stuck in his hair, Just raise your mug and laugh it off—we’ve all been prayin’ there!
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