| 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 | |
| Lyrics | |
| 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 | |
| There 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 dong | |
| 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... |
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