Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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The Death or Glory Wassail

As if the Yuletide weren't already dangerous enough, here come the Thug Wassailers.

Forthwith, yet another comedic masterpiece by the Grand Master of satirical British faux-ksong, Sid Kipper, here heard in redoubtable performance by Blanche Rowen and Mike Gulst.

Shell out and you won't be harmed.

 The Death or Glory Wassail

Wassail, wassail, all over the town:

we are all wassailers of fame and renown.

Open your door and fill up our cup,

or we'll sing through your letterbox until you cough up.


Wassail, wassail, we know you're about,

though you sit in the dark and pretend that you're out.

If you're thinking of calling the police to give chase,

just who do you think is singing the bass?




Wassail, wassail, as you may believe,

'tis more blessed to give than it is to receive.

The more that you give, the more blessed are you,

the more we receive, the less damage we'll do.




Wassail, wassail, with a crisp ten-pound note

we can all drink your health down at the Old Goat.

If you haven't a tenner, two fivers will do.

If not, things don't look very healthy for you.




Wassail, wassail, all over the town:

now you've seen sense, we will make no more row.

Peace be upon you all at your repose,

and we'll come no more nigh you until the pubs close.




Words and tune: Sid Kipper

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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


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