The gramophone:  Jerusalem!

Open your gates and sing

Hosanna ...

(A rocket rushes up the sky and bursts.  A white star fills from it,
proclaiming the consummation of all things and second coming of Elijah. 
Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to Nadir the end
of the world, A twoheaded octopus in GILLIE’S kilts, Busby and tartan
filibegs, whirls through the murk, head over heels, in the form of the
three legs of man.)

The end of the world:  (With A scotch accent) Wha’ll dance the keel row, the keel row, the keel row?

(Over the possing drift and choking BREATHCOUGHS, Elijah’s voice, harsh
as A CORNCRAKE’S, jars on high.  Perspiring in A loose lawn surplice with
funnel sleeves he is seen, VERGERFACED, above A rostrum about which the
banner of old glory is draped. He thumps the parapet.)

Elijah:  No yapping, if you please, in this booth.  Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your coughing with your mouths shut.  Say, I am operating all this trunk line.  Boys, do it now.  God’s time is 12.25.  Tell mother you’ll be there.  Rush your order and you play a slick ace.  Join on right here.  Book through to eternity junction, the nonstop run.  Just one word more.  Are you a god or a doggone clod?  If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready?  Florry Christ, Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it’s up to you to sense that cosmic force.  Have we cold feet about the cosmos?  No.  Be on the side of the angels.  Be a prism.  You have that something within, the higher self.  You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll.  Are you all in this vibration?  I say you are.  You once nobble that, congregation, and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number.  You got me?  It’s a lifebrightener, sure.  The hottest stuff ever was.  It’s the whole pie with jam in.  It’s just the cutest snappiest line out.  It is immense, supersumptuous.  It restores.  It vibrates.  I know and I am some vibrator.  Joking apart and, getting down to bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have you got that?  O. K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street.  Got me?  That’s it.  You call me up by sunphone any old time.  Bumboosers, save your stamps. (He shouts) Now then our glory song.  All join heartily in the singing.  Encore! (He sings) Jeru ...