A hammer to drive the chisel in
|
A chisel to alter bone and skin
|
An algid stiff to now provide
|
A link to where the soul resides
|
|
That still hearts should pulse with ichor
|
Is an ethical dilemma to be sure
|
That a body can be made to function
|
Is an enigma to decipher without compunction
|
That the dead may in mere slumber lie
|
Is a query that begs us to coax a reply
|
That rotting lungs shall heave with breath
|
Is truly a matter of life and death
|
|
The ressurectionists
|
The ressurectionists... no more death after life
|
|
(solo: "Just a Few Stitches" by T. Spruance)
|
|
Augers employed to crack and peel
|
Gilding steel teeth with paste of bone meal
|
Their skulls disassembled and scored
|
With sanguine expectations, meticulously gored
|
|
To reconnect nerve filled clusters
|
Our encaphalic skill, we muster
|
To reinstate arterial paths
|
Our hands engage in a blood bath
|
To reset joint and bone
|
Our mending powers are hewn
|
To restart cardial beating
|
Our defibrullator is heating
|
|
The ressurectionists
|
The ressurectionists... no more death after life
|
|
Intra-venously dripping a potion
|
To rekindle locomotion
|
|
Old hat at plundering lifeless shells
|
But I shall never get used to the smell
|
|
(solo: "The Funk of 40,000 Years" by S.C. McGrath)
|
|
Sutures of catgut carefully stitched
|
Securing intestines in torsal pitch
|
Along the sciatic, nerves are defrayed
|
In our conclave, bodies remade
|
|
This brain in a solution submerged
|
From a cranium we've purged
|
This jellied ganglia to reconnect
|
From the medulla to the neck
|
This artery and vein shall rehydrate
|
From pulmonary functions we'll resuscitate
|
This human tabula rasa we've sewn
|
From it, coaxed, secrets to life unknown
|
|
The ressurectionists
|
The ressurectionists... no more death after life
|
|
-----------------
|
Resurrectionists
|
| Impaled |
