Far past the unsheathed range of night,
Beyond the plane where mortal beings stress,
Struggling to master lesser rights
And fearing greater wrongs to e'er confess,
Beyond the realm where human turmoil reigns
And cruel force reduces all to nil,
There is a sphere, free from contriving pain,
Where all is whim, and light, and Will.

In these high ranges darkness yields to light,
And high creative spirit bans duress;
Here is the answer to the mortal night,
Immortal font of all true, pure, B.S.
None here does suffer from confusion's strains
Nor stumbles, crushed in flesh and will;
Here doth every soul their right regain,
And in creative honor shine both bright and still.

These are the powerful sources of our Mother's hand,
Which do inform her every smile and turn;
Then, stranger, follow, to a better land,
Where bright B.S. doth every honor earn,
And proud BS' torches burn, and burn.

Antony Anstyly
Where Dwells The Not
Murk and Maunder, pubs.
New London, 2001