And I do walk upon Wan’s Dyke 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 O’Malley 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 Don’t blame the messenger, Don’t blame the messenger, Look to the farthest far horizon Don’t blame the messenger. Don’t blame the messenger, For I am Death so Ragnarock with me For I am Doom so Ragnarock with me.
And I stood upon Wan’s Dyke 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 O’Malley 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 Who’s harkening always let us sing That let’s us free our tightest waistband Let’s 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 Fucker 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 Wan’s Dyke 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 O’Malley Sub bass ringing the sides of the valley Sub bass climbing up each last ditch and combe Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom...
Don’t blame the messenger of gloom, Don’t blame the messenger of doom, For this be the Ragmarockingest aeion In stillness O’Malley and Anderson play on... play on... play on...Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
