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