Mine eyes have seen the glory
of the coming of the Goat.
He is trampling up the beer geeks where
the hops of wrath is stored.
He has loosed the fateful mojo
of his potent pantied ass.
His truth is marching on.

Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory hallelujah!
Glory, glory hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the pixels
of a hundred CRTs,
they have builded Thor an altar
in the fetid E-Z cheese;
I can read his lusty message
in chicken blood upon the breeze;
his day is marching on.

I have read a purplish webpage
writ in burnish`d vi rows,
"Be it barflies or a nihilist,
the Goat will win their hearts;
Then Toothgnip, love of woman,
shall crush them 'pon his horns"
The Goat is marching on.

Phil has sounded forth the spam belch
that shall never call retreat
Jon is sorting out his love life
for the chick he'll never meet
Diablo duct tapes infants
and their homebrew tastes of peat!
The Goat keeps marching on.

In the beauty of Valhalla
was he born across Bifrost,
With a glory below His belt that
does surpass both you and me:
Diablo died to keep the secret,
and so the panties now decree,
The Goat is marching on.