From the Pulpit, Any Last Words For the Public

Upon my lastly leave: I beg of you, As I stand before the gallows And these promises of end, Do not take to heart The darkness of doubt That these shadows do cast. It is a pious act, Greeting and dwelling Into The Land Of The Fat. They'll beseech you, These countesses of glowing trolls And their sightliness of mend. Do not give a start To the blacking cloud Of our worship died fast. It's the curious cat, Greeting and dwelling Into The Land Of The Fat. I promise you, Upon entering these hollows That your knees will shake and bend. But steady your heart To beats of devout And find flaw in your past. It is this godly man, Holding religion as fact, Greeting and dwelling Into The Land Of The Fat. It is your mother's hand Holding your own at the stand, Greeting and dwelling Into The Land Of The Fat. Or the magistrates wife, Tipping the brim of her hat, Greeting and dwelling, Biting and swelling, Shipping then selling, Into The Land Of The Fat.