Resurrectionists

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