On a Sunday his body washed ashore,
A crown and jewels his body bore.
He was nine feet tall,
As solid as a wall,
And the people named him George Olsen Dalore.

He was already as dead as could be,
But his magnificence they could still see.
They made up legends of his voyage,
And each was filled with his courage.
Finally they set his body free to the sea.

However, his beautiful face they would never forget.
It was as if he had caught them in a net.
They seemed enlightened,
Convinced that their lives were brightened,
But they felt that they owed George a huge debt.

They would shower him with gorgeous gifts,
Claiming that nothing would ever be fit,
For his majesty.
And they would all agree,
That they would never forget this.

These people started to live only for him,
And claimed he was like a phantom limb.
How he was gone for good,
But he still stood,
In their hearts and minds as a whim.

They didn’t even know his true name,
Or even if he had a claim to fame.
But he was king of their land,
Owning every grain of sand,
And soon their God he became.