Warning: it's a bit weird.
Warning #2: I'm not a poet.
So Grendel, thou mighty lopper off of heads,
You’ve gone into screen writing for the little kiddos.
What dynamic dysfunctional heroes and adult innuendos!
Children watch, and from inside the tubular bowels you orchestrate.
Spittle dribbles from your chops, for you are a sly, progressive teacher.
Angry monster who cometh out of the mist,
Young adults speed and drink and laugh away maturity.
You rush ahead of them, drink, laugh, and wait
Their “Responsibility—not quite yet” anthem merges with your battle cry.
With a little luck they’ll never quite recuperate.
Terrible Grendel, where is your Beowulf who opposes?
Adults are so busy making money, the farthest they can see into the future is a 401k.
Your gaping eyes smile, and you chew your tongue, awaiting the coming mastication.
Hey grown up! Look out! There is flesh caught in its teeth with your DNA on it.
Or would you rather E-Trade and golf your death thoughts away?
Alas, Grendel, men have forgotten you—your flesh-lusting sneer reveals your delight.
Old man, you know the foolishness of all those youngsters.
“Boys will be boys you say,” and thump your chest with your fist.
“Got another twenty in ya, you old rascal,” you say as you pull the lever
And the jangle ring of the slot machine drowns out Grendel’s wicked howl.
Then it happens! So sudden! …is that Grendel coming for you? “Am I dead?”
You ask yourself, as your soul flutters off like a bat to Grendel’s home in the lake.
Guess you should have fought for that fluttery little thing.
Can’t say you didn’t try to live life to the fullest—at least the first 1/∞ of it.
Grendel closes his eyes, sleepy, full;
Sorry, there’s no entertainment to drown in down here.