I'm reading (again) "Letters from Iceland," by W. H. Auden and Louis MacNiece. In this excerpt, Auden makes observations of Icelandic poetry and gives an example of a form that strikes me as being impossible to follow in English.
They seem to have preserved a passion for ingenuity helped by their damnably inflected language, since the days of the Scald's, whose verse would have broken St. John Ervine right up. Even now they write palindrom verses which can be read forwards or backwards . . . Or verses like this in which the second half is made up of the beheaded words of the first:
Snuddar margur trassin traudur
Treinist slangur daginn
Nudda argur rassin raudur
reinist langur aginn.
Many a lazy idler lounges
And finds the day long;
The wicked one rubs his red bottom
And finds discipline irksome.
Anyone want to give it a try?
— sdh