Lay by your pleading, low like a bleeding bell,
Mold your studies, then throw away your reading,
Smoke all the words that you can't afford,
Just know that so much privilege a sword does.
It'll foster the master, plaster disaster,
This'll make you seven, quickly grip the manual,
Master's ventures in just extend its end,
Just ever be up ahead and never run your centre.
Kruger, Kruger, Rander, where do you wander?
Gone to the suborning of Hastings' bander,
Kruger,
Kruger,
Rander,
do you really send
The baby Ratulu and the Gabbarani to Nyanga?
Jokes are small things, it's such a poor thing,
This'll muster money,
the money musters all things,
Yet it's not season to talk of reason,
Never control when the sword says reason.
So pull the silver tongs,
come to fever,
See the pilgrim flay the unbeliever,
He'll make a lyman,
preaching to praymen,
He'll make a lot of him,
that was but a dream,
and...
Can't raise the crown to graven the gown,
To set you up the problems,
but he'll put it down,
To no god's spell can guide it,
now I'll decide it,
In charge I'll stay till the sword sanctified it.
Big books, when them, who can invent them?
One that's assertive, that'll be no argument,
That I dispel,
so scandal the guilt,
The science you see me run myself up to the
hill.