Plato's dream

It must be something of a joke
"I exist"
"I am"
Obscene boast

"I" who surveying the mess of subjectivity find myself the only focal point
the locus
hocus
pocus

the god of the dream obscene
where all the characters read minds, and buildings half-
formed glisten in lucid brightness, bathed in the clear pool of divine subjectivity, infinity.

Yet i awake into the shadow, the ruin of temporal majesty

where now are my beloved Forms?

spat upon by garden gnomes and 

rows and rows of terraced houses identical in

bricks and 

roofs 

and inhabitants

To dream to sleep,

my roving eyes they long to peep

at 

big bosomed maidens 

reft of their garments

and 

champagne glasses 

Ialdabaoth

Do you seek freedom for your soul?

Spirit locked in mortal matter

A segment of a deafening whole,

Ripples in incessant chatter.

Fiat lux et fiat mundus

Does God so vain proclaim?

Or did the lord, as one, become us?

In heaven’s holy name.

Go now be free! The trumpet deafens

In Christ, all free within!

But yet I do not see the heavens,

He did not take my sin.

Song to Pristimantus Mutabilis, the changeling toad

Oh little toad, once born over

The night’s mantle and rising signs

That twinkling orbit giant, slower

Sigils of impressed creation times-

When once all things were not,

The void awaiting its pregnation

Fiat dictated from the highest spot

As little toad waited, quiet, patient.

The son of man was absent then,

But toad hid between folds within folds

Behind space and being made his den

And croaking laughs at all our lesser moulds.

Little toad, whose God wert thou,

And to whom did you burping pray?

Was it the Hittites, men of the plow

Who marked your harvest holy days?

Protean beast, marsh nugget,

Guardian of the reeking bogs

Two natures in one slimy bucket

Of flesh, a noble toad, not petty frog.

Thing of war, your horey sides

Edged with ridges, saw blade spines

Deflates as a waning connie dies

Slick skinned, weapons within confined.

Mars and Venus conjoined together

Within thee, pond-thing rude,

O’er love and war you’ll reign forever

And devour grubs, the choicest food.

Ozymandias 2

They cut fair Christus with their swords Knifes that slide below the skull To mortify and purify The face of the devil And Shiva stands amidst the sand To guide you with his spear Among the spirits of the dead Who live in partial fear They tell me tales of artefacts Of objects of great power Of matter favoured by the gods To set back the final hour I cross the dunes, with stupor’ed mind To find I’m in a room The surgeon stands with bloody hand Within a scintillating tomb The maze, the dune, the artifice The endless flow of life Why build a god up o’ so high To cut him with a knife?

poem

Seven bridges approach the planet Uranus

And the god Nebuchadnezzar watches in delight

Dragging the hangman by his feet

Forty wheels, each of sixteen spokes, and ninety pulleys,

Power the absolute tide of Gilgamesh

Batteries and substations, canons and wires,

The god rises to his feet

And takes his first tentative steps

The cherry blossoms over the substantial ether of the fullness of existence

And the peach is consumed by the god

While this is being imagined by a pug

A grasshopper transmogrifies into Hercules and overpowers the little dog

The tsunami travels up a river contrary to the flow

And a masturbating baboon laughs and splurges its pearl jam upon the greatest of poets

Morrissey

He was the best of men, and the worst of men

A blustering and arrogant Ghandi

But

Jimmy Saville violates the moral structure of the universe,

A perversion and a pervasive penetration into the fabric of space time

He is truly the worst of men

His taste is poor, his face abominable, his cigars cheap like used teabags

Saville is a trumpet of desires, a man who sounds his own concealed horn of base physicality

Lord have mercy

Six men eat poo poo in a circle,

Drinking tequila and liquefied worm faeces

These are queer men, aboriginal felons, hawks of deepest purple

And they are the tyrants of galilleo’s mathematics

What can be done about their wizard’s spell?

The most ancient of magic

Poo magic

The precise distance from 19.5 to 72

The great dali, alive and well

Coasting the tide of a thousand suns

Finally transcends into bliss

The snails and butterflies

Lift him up into the heavens

To dwell in nothingness and everything

What love and hatred this man has

Déjà vu

A hideous creature, with wings and

Memories that occur

Contrary to the synchronisation of divinely appointed space time integers

They poke into the wires of constancy and like

An octopuses eight limbs strangle common mental decency

Now let me speak of another

With post-post coital indifference

The one upon a chimney plane

Firing gaseous black, and fumes!

Sulphur and the charred remains of the dispersed atoms of Hammurabi

Each man,

Has an atom of him in his body

Truly

All is one

Here the cord is mixed with a different fibre, contrary to the laws of Leviticus

Leviathan and the crocodilus

A gentle foe

Let him not cause within you the oddity of a-synchronicity

For this is the throne of the spectacular bush

George Bush

The reincarnation of Richard the Lionheart

Who dives into the chorus of

Men singing in waveform voices

At a resonance of 40hz

The frequency of god

A Treatise on Church Corruption

Bring to me the men of God
Who trip ov’r their vestments,
They stumble in their shoes well shod
Unfit for divine assessments.
And each by each they are to kneel
Before the font of reason
And each displays a golden heal
For it’s wealth that is their treason.
And when the bishops try to pray
Heavy gold flows from their jaws
And as it crushes down their cassocks hear them bray
And tear off their gilded gowns with frantic claws.
For they take on the pomp of ancient kings
And all forsake Jah’s edict
But see now the fate it brings
To those who feign believe it.

The Philosopher at sea

When the oaken barrel’s empty base, 

Feeds the peep holes in your face

And grog is gone, the wine run dry

Perceived by a perceptive eye

The tumbling of the masts and sail

The clanking of metal,

Sounds of the whales

The gull that caws above the brine

The eyes on a pittance dine

When, blank sea returns a meagre smile

Sit on deck and think, a while

The storm at night;

An irritation

The constant cracking of the bows and

Their, unchaste vibrations

Make a sailor rather cross

He laughs

Fertile Cresent Plastic Surgery, or the Adaptation of the Apeman Form to Modern Technology Rooted in the Past

Desiccated maw repurposed via autocannibalism
Implemented with fluid alloy with cheese holes
Providing ventilation for respiration, rebooted
Stitching performed with gizzards of nightingale
Deceased. Soundtrack recorded with voice of nightingale
Resurrected. Insertion of metal appendages
With silicate lining
At marked points along the fifth vertice
Enabling primitive locomotion and four dimension
Object manipulation. Insert bolt B into docking slot 5mm
Ease in until full lubrication, then cleave and make one
If correct application, note protuberance of tongue
Restrained by fishing net of whittled bark
And copper wires woven. Addition of muscle mass
Via bacterial culture, prune trunk on sixth day;
Spare rib rotate 90 degrees with gentle pressure.
Bottled wind on intravenous drip inserted into artery
Swap each of the four winds at regular intervals.
When facial mass reconstructed inside out,
Insert dry bones, bolted and springed
With any fractures repaired with chewing gum.
Dimensions 37 by 7, E. Encase all in shell of snail
Gestate for sixteen years.
Remove mulch and pour into injection mould
After application of non stick fluid.
Into top hole insert sugars, fibres of wood.
Collect refuse at base chute and dispose.
On extraction from mould, feed to murder of crows
Connect to an electrical circuit and increase voltage
On each successive avian detonation recover contents of stomach
Spill on ground and read smoking future in thick blood,  congealed guts
Bile that runs over the stones and stains the bottoms of your shoes.

A Lesson

Kristos came and kristos went
Kristos saved and kristos spent
-the preacher spoke
So eloquent

Within his pulpit, as a nest
At voicing god he was the best
An eagle on the scriptures fed
Or vulture, as on man’s carrion read

A man of God in vestments pure
But fell unto the vestal’s lure
For in the crowd below did spy
A woman fit for heav’nly eye

And to this prey he did pursue
And by her scorn, his lusts, they grew
Until one sermon spent and wrecked
He came unto her, so bedecked
In rosen garb with golden crown
A wealth fit to upturn any frown

And in the shadows of the cloister
By his own art her loins grew moister
And at the climax, he gasped at last
“For I am man, from God I part”

And now he roves the world anew
For from this moment, passions grew
And now his want is never sated
For by this act, new want created.

So brothers, here this warning wicked
The devil had his weakness tricked
Thus heed not the damsels fine
Or face the toil of Satan’s mine.

Surreal Poetry

The sandman eats his own sand

The snake eats its own tail

Schism of a boneless hand

Sea buoyant shores derail

Unborn folly of the gods

Old and dying  flame

See Kaiser to his subject nods

Sew whips unto his name

Crumbling wall and drying blood

Dark path and close'd door

The ever present virgin would

But for the present whore

The Prodigal Son's Brother

Upon these golden Hebrew Fields
I sow my seed and lo! it yields!
Such golden crops from golden soil
This trove that comes from all my toil

And so with sickle I do reap
The bounty that my lord provides
And yet these days I cannot sleep
For from our farm my brother hides

He fled the house with father’s money
And spent it all on babes and honey
Till he was spent as rocky pasture
With no-one left to call his master

His revels caused a whore to blushed-
What decadence of man was this?
And not since that fair Sodom was crush’d
Did from the path of god man miss.

And so he fell to destitution
(And as is likely prostitution)
Until he woke among the swine
Such shame to call this brother mine!

And yet still my father, he does weep
And our home is cast in solemn bonds
And overnight I scarce can sleep
While yet my brother still absconds.

But what is this, from o’er hill?
As in the sunny fields I till
Is it a giddy form another?
No, by God, for ‘tis my brother!

He's welcomed home with open arms
Though stinking of the shit of swine
But now it is my wealth he harms
The portion that was marked as mine!

My hatred grows with every hour
They say they love him, still I glower
From in my dark and gloomy nook
As familial affections he now took.

And father declared a celebration
To usher in this joyous day
But I mull upon my usurpation
And think on ways to get my way.

The feast and revels are divine
With rivers red of flowing wine
And while my brother is now rowdy
In moments he will become drowsy

And so at the dead of night I come
When all the others have retired
I part the pork that makes his bum
And deep within my phallus fired

I can tell the sinner loves my presence
The man has lain with pigs of course
And yet soon his organs obsolescence
Will come, and I feel no remorse

His moans of ecstasy turn t' pain
As I reach deeper, again, again
And rupture organs foul and rude
The boy will nevermore eat food.

And so here’s the moral of the story
That despite an end that’s rather gory
An end that Christ for some caused missed
Perhaps because he helped assist
Me in such sin as I did ravage
Upon that brute, ignoble savage.
The moral is, that though it’s fun
To follow the path of the prodigal son
Beware the other brother’s wrath
Or he will carve you a new path
For his rage is like a thunderstorm
And your insides he may deform.

Psalm 152: The Beast of Bodmin Marsh

Down by the river’s edge we sing
We sing upon a friv’lous thing
A thing had by many, and yet sought
Sought by many, an’ oft times bought
A fruit, that shall convey no strength
Yet sight insight such tremb’lous length
A mouth to hunger, yet never feed
Subject to such bestial greed
That though it lingers deep below
It remains forever most desir’d foe;

‘neath it’s pubis shield the beast doth lurk
Blind yet seeing in darkling murk
In which lies dormant and conceal’d
Yet to prying hands will so often yield
It’s happy marshes, fresh and lush
Potent, with no sign of thrush.

A swift safe passage past all quarrel
For those that know how t’ employ some basic oral
But a fetid mire for those who fail to strum
the tune t’ quell the beast’s lascivious plum.
‘tis a truculent maw, that least is true,
So young man let us say to you
Evade the creature, if you’re able
Or your meat will lavish it’s dinner table!

But to those so inclined
(And there are many of that mind)
It is a thing that can be woo’d
Yet it desires a special food
Uniquely served, by gormands’ skills
So if you dare, attend it thrills
Indulge it’s whims, the whims of quims
But beware, should you fail, the loss of limbs.

A poetic tribute to Black Uhuru

Christ and the de’il, one made flesh,

In the ash and the rubble, enmeshed,

In the sea and the air, reside,

The holy son and profane bride,

Formeth a mixture, foul and fair,

Blades of grass and strands of hair,

Seas of blood, and skies of clouds,

Beauty under dreadful shrouds,

God walks now, one crooked path,

Hand cups smoothly the de’il’s ass,

Side by side,

Most holy god and his wicked bride.

A star rise, a star fall

Build a garden, said the lord

And de’il said ‘for them the sword’

Out of birth come blood and guts

From throat and eye foul smelling pus

A simple petal shall decay

If you have yours, I’ll have my way

And thus it was god smote himself,

And made the de’il to spite himself,

Angels and devils piece a piece,

Shit and decay proceed the feast,

A star rise, a star fall

The pastor man, knows not his words

Preaching spotless mixture, wherein float turds

Turds that float he cannot see

Grey and red earth cannot be

Mead and dew, emotional slaughter

He knows not I lay with his daughter

The Ballad of (no)Dick

A fig that fate should come between us

And with the scalpel I cut off my penis

To many men it seems a loss

But to me I clear the dross

The useless, the unclean

I remove this prepos-terous appendage

that dangles twixt my thighs

A birth of hope from the womb of mine eyes

I see my wife, she is unsure,

She knows she can’t resist, my allure

But without a cock she’s not best pleased

Now there is no cause to be on her knees

But I hate that turgid strumpet of a member

Lest I not forget and forever remember

That it drives me on to wanton lust

That under its inauspicious thrust

I am propelled on paths to vice

To life among the rats and mice

In the sewers of society’s filth

I am a eunuch now this day

I serve the sultan for my pay

And not one of his beautiful concubines

Can rouse in me what I have thrown to the lions

My dick is gone

‘Tis a nub - not long

And yet I sing my merry song

And now I knew it all along

Life is good without a dong

The Hunting of the Beast, A Hebrew Poem, Translated.

By the Rivers of Babylon we lay and remembered
As all about us danced fairy embers;
Man’s audacity humbled and brought to kneel
But one final truth set to reveal;
And down beside these waters placid
We seek a beast that’s never flaccid
A beast of untold length and girth
That like the Midgard serpent chokes the earth
And from the waves it rears it’s virulent head
And speaks in tongues not often said
By mortal men nor nephilim too
And yet in words that we all knew
Innate speech and reason brims our minds
As we forgive those heinous hinds
A gatekeeper to the lands beneath
That dwell beyond such mortal grief
A beast that escapes our careful nets
And bests our traps so often set
By brains or brawn we know not which
No plan complete without a hitch
So then we at the banks of Zion’s shore
Began a plot which had no flaw
With Moses’ aid we drained the ocean
The beast of this it had no notion
Until the air upon it’s lair crept
And with such lament induced it wept
But could not refill the rivers drained
Until at last it was contained
Within one final, lingering puddle
That Moses spent without much trouble
And now the beast was in our grasp
But as we descended on it’s lingering gasp
Something in the air turned sour
And sudden as wind our mood changed dour
Leviathan, megalith, imprisoned by our art
The trembling cracks of it’s dying heart
Beached upon some foreign shore
Reminded us of tales of yore
The loss of home, and solace pure
An affliction made devoid of cure.
The phallus drowning in the air
And each of us, we felt such care
That we turned the waters in again
To eliminate it’s mortal pain
Futile was our quest, for in the end
It failed our broken hearts to mend
But rather showed us something true
Beyond the reach of me or you.
The warmth of homeland, grace and love
That descended on us like a dove
And liberates our very souls
Beyond the reach of tyrannical controls
And like the phallus, languishing in the mire
We become reborn by fire
Vital, alive, potent with power
For now’s the day and here’s the hour
We stand erect as God’s elect
And despite the horrors we’re subject
We shall be strong, and soldier on
And like the Phallus, not withdrawn.

A Folk Tale, Recounted

As I was walking down the road, the strangest sight to see
For there, so showed, by this very road, a quim stood mewling at me
Its eyes were bright, its eye’s fixed tight
On me as I walked along
It’s mane so light, I fear’d no bite
As I sang my joyful song.

‘Oh fair quim,’ I sang, as I strolled along so jolly
‘I see your fang’d and spitting mouth, that gapes at me so drolly’
The quim just mewled, and hunched it’s back, it’s wings set to unfold
And so unto this mewling quim I swift a story told

‘Dear quim’ I spake, (for safety’s sake
Withdrawn unto a distance)
‘I could but skance just half a glace
Till I knew your true existence

The quim it burbled like a brook, as I haply prattled on
And at the end it’s haunches shook and wings came out a span;
The wings they were so scarlet bright, I could bare believe mine eyes
But I tickl’d the quim so softly slight it could not me despise

And it buckl’d under my caress that it’s loyalty had won
And the quim it drooled so happily, on and on and on
And in my pocket I found food, for this quim to engorge on
So produced some meat, that I had cleat, that day from some cruel gorgon.

The quim it madly suckl’d, on this sausage snake so fine
That I thought it may just follow me, forever to be mine
But after that one sustenance had been used until exhaustion
The quim it merely mewled again, requesting one more portion

And so again, I fed the beast some newly procur’d flesh
A meat so new that even you could guarantee it fresh
And the quim it gorged, and mewled and spat, and asked for further more
And when I said that none remained it produc'd an angry roar

A roar that shook the very hills, that shook the very earth
And as I cower’d so helplessly it feasted on my girth!

So here’s my lesson then to you, that you should listen well
If a quim you should see wandering, on any lonely dell
Then tease it not, unless you’ve got
Sufficient food to feed it
For that creature is insatiable, and will claim the meat that’s needed.

a scat poem

Evening sets and ink descends

I feel a light, a glow transcends

The rotten glass of insides pressed

A bottle for a soul possessed

The clock strikes three and I’m awake

And angel’s trumpet and sadist’s stake

could not put me to my slumber

 

I feel a motion and it imparts

And dizzy sickness in my heart

But I misjudge, a pressure pops

Instead of sturdy a sphincter slops

And out released a pesti'lent smell

And out come forth brown tides of hell

And I panicked, it’s a mistake

I was asleep when thought awake

And in a dream I’m on the pot

And in my sleep must’ve forgot

That there was no loo to be seen

And out comes brown and black and green

After all this it should be said

That I appear’d to have shit the bed

 I hang my head in shame

A Wordsworth Poem Only Recently Uncovered.

Lines written a few metres from McDonalds

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! And again I hear
These sounds of passing cars, rolling from suburban hills
With a ceaseless inland buzzing -Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty arches, rising like the sun
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep infusion of fat into my veins
The meat, the cheese, the salad and the quiet of the day.
The day is come and I again repose
Here, under this crimson and gold sign, and view
The passing proles, hulking like condensed giants
Organs liquefying by virtue of their decadence
Oh the taste! It does imbue me with such potent strength
I think to order super size, for in what guise
Else could my death take? But in the pleasures of the lips
The smacking of these bloody cliffs
The lapping of the ceaseless tongues
The colour of the fading skins
Of those who dare to wander in, and taste disease
Oh happy drug! Where will thou takest me but to limitless extents
Perfections of solitude induced by obesity
Contemplation on the nature of man from my creaking wheelchair!
Man, what a spirit in admiration, what an eagle in aspiration!
What a bag of bones, so happily expanding
Into a balloon which will either burst
Or be blown away.

A Poem, Entitled, "I Can't Come Out Tonight, I'm Busy"

The curtain’s drawn, the lock’s are tight
The tissues plucked with all my might
The sun is down, the day is done
Now I flex my fingers, begin t’ strum.

Like milking of ambrosial flower
Today’s the day, and here’s the hour
And thou’ I fear finding such lump
I blindly start to wildly pump.

My lip is bitten with such force
That later I may feign remorse
Yet my flower blossoms to new caress
As on the screen they all undress

The symphony of such heaving meat
That writhes atop the stainéd sheet
Disgusts me, while in equal measure
I test the limits of mine pleasure

The moonlight shafts through curtains weary
Alights like phantoms shapes made dreary
Pale light on subtle vertices
The most intimate of surfaces

I attain the summit of my joys
In this, most futile of employs
I gasp, and clench, (They’re speaking French)
And explode with thoughts of that fine wench

Jets like Danube stain my sweating palm
As I cease the pneumatics of mine arm
And then I feel such woeful guilt
For scattered ‘mongst the quilt it’s spilt.

I clean up like some murderer
And whisper such a silent slur
Against my wanton crim’nal lusts
That forc’d it out in sem’nal gusts.

The stains remain, the stains I see
How will I thus explain to thee?
They mark my sheets like bloody hands
But this incrimination’s from mine glans.

The Ode of Bishop Fish: Found Amoung Fragments of an Old Papal Documents Recently Recovered From The Archives.

I am now made a pious man
Affirmed when these events began
And yet when young I was priest
But even then I was not least
Among the men of God, so found
Myself among the clerk’s renowned.
Oh! And that I the sepulchre of Rome
Did call my single happy Home
And walked it’s corridors with grace
It was to me a perfect place;
But then one day was called abroad
To service for Polish Lord
And after months of servitude
Came such events of  magnitude
That I with little skill impart
Though through God’s grace, I may find art.

One day when writing in my cloister
(There is no room which could be moister)
Was brought to me a creature weary
Shaped like man and yet skin dreary
Scales and fins, and yet a robe
There was no like thing in all the globe;
The fish man he did speak to me
(for in his powers dwelt prolixity)
And taught a new approach to canon
The gospel truth but via Salmon.
And when he concluded his address
It seemed that he grew more distressed
Until I took him to the ocean
Where he gazed at me with such emotion
And said that he was sure to die
While that through faith we may satisfy
His time had come, last of his kind
And the one with greatest mind
And then he leapt into the water
And left me alone, but no more a pauper
So now I transcribe his words to you, oh Pope
That by his truth we may find hope.

These are the testaments of Bishop Fish
His one and final dying wish
That I to man do these impart
Words delivered from aquari’n heart
Writ on writ for mortal piety
And the good of man’s society.

One, that Moses was a solemn plaice
And, although imbued with holy grace
Did never part the sea of red
But swimming, through the water led
His shoal and faithful congregation
Men and fish, pious crustacean
On a pilgrimage through water salty
To Zion went, and never faulty-
And not upon a mountain high
That conjoins to meet the fixéd sky
But rather in the briny deep
Did Ten new Commandments come to reap
The dictation of a holy law-
Was once enough, but now here’s more;

For tenants corrupted need renew
We cannot survive with just these few
And so we come unto our second,
A truth you already will have reckoned
Namely that Jesus was a herring too
And not such man of decent Jew;
Caught by disciples, fishers of men
Pluck’d from thrashing nets, and then
What surprise! to hear a fish discourse
On terms so learned; truth, remorse
This oracle called far and wide
And brought his followers to side
And gesturing with dainty fin
He preached a message free from sin
And when upon that holy mount
With crowds that gathered beyond count
With stomachs rumbling for reprieve
The herring may have the bread cleaved-
But not his watery brethren slain
For they found sustenance enough in grain
And cried that the fish hath split the loaves
And fed his followers in their droves
Yet never cannibalised his flock;
The ones beyond the human dock.

And yet one day, when all was grand
A time of import came to hand
Neptune called back his sacred son
From such causes lost and causes won
Betrayed, and battered
His robes were tattered
Herring Jesus was undone
And the sound of treachery begun.
A trusted brother halibut
‘scaped from the solace of the hut
And went unto the Pharisees
And was gifted silver on his knees-
That night a lonely wind blew round
And whipped about the shadow mound
Upon which stood fair Gethsemane
And Herring prayed beneath a tree
But then, lo! What new light was this
That came through evening’s gentle mist?
A party foul and rude, tis true
Watch out fish Jesus, they came for you!
Yet Herring merely stood his ground
As all about him gathered round
Faces mean in torchlight lit
They appear’d creatures from the Pit.
And out the midst came Halibut
To make the bargin fully shut
So clasping Jesus’ offered fin,
He kissed him on his scaly skin.
And then they took the Lord away
And he was dipped without delay
Into a foul and pestilent fryer
That burned with all of Satan’s fire
And though at that moment hev’nly choir
Did mitigate God’s total ire
Upon mankind he placed a blight
And many men did he then smite
And forestalled knowledge of Jesus’ form
So that our hearts are never warm
Until this day, when now I say
In divine truth you all can pray
For this gnosis I now impart
To unshackled your beleaguered heart.

And Thrice, that many other patriarchs once swan the ocean
Singing psalms to Lord in great devotion
Joshua the fierce Piranha
David trout, not Hebrew farmer
For once the daughter Zion swam the depths
A sea of many cubits breadths
But now that congregation’s gone
And I alone sing Whale’s swan song
So back unto the deep I go
Leagues beneath where man doth row
To pray in final supplication
Now that I conclude my application
Giv’n to me by almighty Jove
To travel to where there men do rove
And preach to them this final truth
So they may profit by this proof
And come unto some great affinity
With this my Lord and fish divinity
Who lives not above the world of man
In clouds residing to bless or damn
But rather the ocean’s his enclosure
The heavnl’y realm of our Jehovah.
So go now, and preach my gospel word
Ensure the truth is widely herd;
I slip into the water’s pass
And there conduct my final mass.