From Iceland — Hip-Hop Lads: A Poem

Hip-Hop Lads: A Poem

Published December 12, 2015

York Underwood
Photo by
Inga María Brynjarsdóttir

Let me tell the story
of the lads of mad fun,
who will at Christmas time
come visit 101.

Some came from the Farms,
the two Wolves, you know,
some mess around downtown
all put on a show.

Finní owns Prikið
– where the lads get their beer –
and the manager Geoff;
keeps them all in good cheer.

They were called the Yule lads
– at Yuletide they were due –
but this Yule was special,
‘cause they crushed Airwaves too.

Thirteen altogether,
artists in their prime
and at their own pace
each blew up at one time.

Creeping up, all stealth,
they kicked down the door.
Selling out Húrra and Prikið
but all wanted more.

They hid where they could,
with a joint and a beer,
ready to party all night,
fuck the police, no fear.

Even when they get busted,
drinking and smoking pot.
They still party like it’s America,
without getting shot.

First was Stiffy Legs.
Tall and stiff as wood,
who whipped into shape
all the Pu$$ that he could.

Second, Gully Jumper,
who came from the farm.
‘Stead of hiding in gullies
he made cream with his charm.

Stubby the third was called,
don’t be fooled by the size.
She’ll not only kick your ass
but stick something inside.

The fourth was Spoon Licker;
thin, he was, and blonde.
Wants to scoot to San Fran
to lick spoons ‘cross the pond

Pot Licker, the fifth,
was a funny sort of chap.
He loves to wear V-necks
play guitar and rap.

Bowl Licker, the sixth one,
doesn’t quite seem to fit.
But keep an eye on him
he gets drunk and steals shit.

The seventh was Door Slammer,
two-in-one bathroom chap:
takes pills in the stall,
forgets about the tap.

Skyr Gobbler, the eighth,
was the nicest of lads.
He always eats breakfast,
and wants all to feel rad.

Ninth: Sausage Swiper,
steals your beauty mark moles.
Her flow breaks glass ceilings
and destroys gender roles.

Tenth was Window Peeper,
a weird man of wit,
he loves to watch mischief
so please suck that dick.

Eleventh was Door Sniffer,
he goes well with this jam.
His lyrics are served hot
like smoked Christmas lamb.

Meat Hook, the twelfth one,
likes treats made of ice.
Scarfs down all she can,
no concern for the price.

The thirteenth was Candle Beggar
who snatched candles for thrills.
He hangs out in the Shade
but ain’t there for the pills.

You can read the original poem “Jólasveinarnir” by Jóhannes úr Kötlum here.

See Also:
Issue 18 2015 NWOIHH cover photo by Hörður SveinssonMischief, Mayhem & Hip-Hop With Iceland’s New Yule Lads
The Yule Lads are the thirteen Icelandic Santa Clauses who descend one-by-one on the thirteen days before Christmas to play tricks on Icelandic children. Their mother, Grýla, a mountain Ogress, eats badly-behaved children; her partner-in-crime is Leppalúði, another ogre and Grýla’s third husband (Iceland has a high divorce rate).

Fjörukráin by Art BicnickThe Icelandic Christmas Buffet – Explained, Explored, Expanded
The Icelandic Christmas buffet is all about tradition. December is a time where you head out with your family or—more often—your colleagues or a group of friends, to attack holiday-themed all-you-can-eat buffets. The season just isn’t complete without it. It’s about preserving history in mounds of gloopy salads, smoked meats, pickled herring, cured salmon and all the rest. It’s basically about preserving the history of preserved food.

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