Song | Resurrectionists |
Artist | Impaled |
Album | Death After Life |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作曲 : McGrath, Sewage | |
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 |
zuo qu : McGrath, Sewage | |
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 | |
Intravenously 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 |
zuò qǔ : McGrath, Sewage | |
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 | |
Intravenously 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 |