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

fotky

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...