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.
Jack-in-the-Buff
A loving springtime tribute to the Spirit of Skyclad.
Jack-in-the-Buff
(Tune: Jack-in-the-Green)
Now Winter is over, and Summer's come in,
so it's finally safe to start showing some skin.
Our ski-masks and parkas we joyously doff,
for to go about dancing with Jack-in-the-Buff.
Parkas we doff, parkas we doff,
for to go about dancing with Jack-in-the-Buff.
Now Jack-in-the-Buff is a singular man
with sandals, a beard, and an all-over tan.
A pentagram pendant is more than enough:
“Adorn, but don't cover,” says Jack-in-the-Buff.
More than enough, more than enough:
“Adorn, but don't cover,” says Jack-in-the-Buff.
Now Jack-in-the-Buff has a very strange power:
be they never so prim, within less than an hour,
wherever he goes (it amazes us all)
the clothes will start dropping like leaves in the fall.
Amazes us all, amazes us all:
the clothes will start dropping like leaves in the fall.
He's the Father of Freedom, he's clad in the Sun,
and you just can't help wanting to join in the fun.
If you're weary of Winter, and thinking “Enough!”
Come dance down at Sweetwood with Jack-in-the-Buff.
Jack-in-the-Buff, show us your stuff:
and we'll all dance each Beltane with Jack-in-the-Buff.
For Iakkhos
Father of Freedom
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