27 It regards iron as straw, bronze as rotten wood.
28 An arrow will not make it flee; sling stones are turned to stubble for it.
29 Clubs are regarded as stubble, and it laughs at the short sword’s rattle.
30 “Its underparts are shards of a potsherd; it moves over mud like a threshing sledge.
31 It makes the deep boil like a cooking pot; it makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
32 Behind it, it leaves a glistening wake; one would think that the deep has gray hair.
33 “On the ground it has no equal— a creature without fear.