[Anderson / Cope / O'Malley / Preston]
And I do walk upon Wans d**e
And I do survey the land
And I did become the
Reaper with my own bare hands+
For I am Wodan,
Though, some call me Hermes,
Some call me Roman Mercury,
God of cargos,
God
of weather,
Hanging God of boundaries,
Hanging God of Gibbet Hill
Killing God of hidden doorways.
Spinning the yarn from
Wansdyke to Silbury
Spinning the taelbook, telling the tale
Telling the tellbook to all and sundry
Keltiberians and Irish
Gael
Then I hear camp followers bellow afar
Their shrieking lament for Johnny Guitar:
"Look to the farthest far
horizon
Look to the bloodlust deepest scar
Look to the scattering Brythonic uprising
For this be the wall of Johnny
Guitar
There be the ditch that you shall die in
Here be the wall that I shall cry on
Ditch dug with antler and ox bone
shovel
This rising wall that shades our ancient hovel."
Look to the north a quick mile yonder
Look to our
Yggdrasilbury
Look to the Saxon chasing Viking
Look to the Norman chasing Saxon
Look to the German chasing German
German
German German German
Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
"Play your gloom axe Stephen
OMalley
Sub bass clinging to the sides of the valley
Sub bass ringing in each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic
doom."
To rage in sound this valiant despair
Doom and gloom as each a splendid pair
To rage in sound the valiant
despair:
Not Abraham,
Not Moses
And not Christ
Neither Jove to whom we sacrificed,
Not Attis
Not Mohammed,
But to
hilltop Thor
We rave and dance and weep and we implore:
Look to the farthest far horizon
Dont blame the messenger,
Dont blame
the messenger,
Look to the farthest far horizon
Dont blame the messenger.
Dont blame the messenger,
For I am Death so
Ragnarock with me
For I am Doom so Ragnarock with me.
And I stood upon Wans d**e
And I did survey the land
And I did
become the Reaper with my own bare hands...
And then I was King Vikar with his arms outstretched
And then I was King Vikar with
his broken neck
And then I was the villain and the victim and the priest
Was grim misunderstanding and was grim as death
itself
My Wall My Wall caught in the thrall of my Wall
My Wall My Wall caught beneath the thrall of my Wall.
Here in the
bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny
Guitar
Play your gloom axe Stephen OMalley
Sub bass ringing the sides of the valley
Sub bass climbing up each last ditch and
combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom.
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal
wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the
thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall
Mothers to your bosoms,
Grab your child and sing,
As to your breasts cascade
and sing:
Brothers and fathers,
Down to the thing in the middle of the town
To judge at the thing
These the effeminate
priests of Frey
That don their drag
And shriek through the day
That drag their God through the muddiest fields
Spilling seed
to raise the yields
These the odd castrated womb-men
On this onerous land of no men
There the infernal priestess of
Freyja,
These her people layer on layer
Then the infernal priestess of Freyja
Visiting the farms
The seething seer
Visiting
the farms
And rarely leaving
Mounting the tumulus
The people grieving
Dodens doddering dead and dying.
Hear the modest
priests of Ing
Whos harkening always let us sing
That lets us free our tightest waistband
Lets us fertilise our own
land
Spunked entire nations from one phallus
Spunked the vegetation into being
Spilled the super seed into the one day superceded
earth.
Old Mother f****r
She was a cocksucker
To give her poor family a home
Went down on their ding song
And drank for
a sing song
But ended her sad life alone.
Around the church in Yatesbury the dead
Lie scattered underneath the sacred
yew
As Sheila the Witch attending Sunday prayer
Praises a God but never tells them who
And from my Wall observing Sheila the
Witch
Praises her God but never explaining which.
And every Monday night by the light of Moon
Those Meddlesome meddlesome
meddlesome bells
And the heavy metal of the heathen bells
Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome bells
And the bad heavy metal of the
heathen bells
Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome bells
And the heavy metal of the heathen bells
Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome
bells
And the bad heavy metal of the heathen bells
And Doggen can testify to my claim
That the Christians of Yatesbury are
Christian in name
But their stomping pounding actions attest
To their Christianity happiest at rest
And Doggen who played at the
John Stewart Hall
Can attest that its keeper is the heathenest of all
Is a shapeshifter tending to her hogweed hidden
And her
dear Paul wallows in the village pond nay midden
For all of us are boundaried by Wans d**e at the west
And the great world hill
which spies us and can never let us rest
Bringing on Iranian Mithra
From its home beneath the east
Caught always in the thrall of
my Wall
Caught always in the thrall of my Wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my
wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the
thrall
Stand in the thrall of my wall
Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Here in the
bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Play your gloom axe Stephen OMalley
Sub bass ringing the sides of the
valley
Sub bass climbing up each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom...
Dont blame the messenger of
gloom,
Dont blame the messenger of doom,
For this be the Ragmarockingest aeion
In stillness OMalley and Anderson play on... play
on... play on...