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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Hobman

 

Him's our hobman, Hob's man, him what gives his body over, over to Old Hob.

Old Hob, him he throws he's shadow over. Hob's man.

Don't you go a-steppin' in he's shadow, now.

Wi' he's eyes sees, wi' he's ears hears, wi' he's tongue speaks, he do, then.

Him don't wear Old Hob's mask, no. No, that old mask wear he.

Most ways, him's our man, like to me and ye. Most ways, any road.

Come Sabbat, though, him he throw he's shadow over.

Even everyday-like, though, be shadow of that shadow over he.

So mind ye don't go a-steppin' in he's shadow, now, ye hear?

Mind ye. Mind ye well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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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