Clubs are counted as stubble; he laughs at the rattle of javelins.
His underparts are like sharp potsherds; he spreads himself like a threshing sledge on the mire.
He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
Behind him he leaves a shining wake; one would think the deep to be hoary.
Upon earth there is not his like, a creature without fear.
He beholds everything that is high; he is king over all the sons of pride."