Vikings in March

We are the men of misshapen head,
tainted paints, and fugue.
We dare to call Cincy chincy
before we discover: bluegrass brewing.
We know neither who won nor who lost;
ask only: were there any upsets?
Is the Guinness keg kicked?
Rumor speaks of green beer and loose women.
But I’m afraid we’ll never get there,
‘cause we’ve eaten our passports,
having gone hungry
at sea.