| Your old man’s in the kitchen
|
| He’s a smile short of laughing
|
| And the radio’s a-beaming
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| From the stars that are coughing up
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| The change in his pockets
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| And the shrug of his shoulders
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| And the blood from his fingers
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| And the love that I hold for him
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| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| And those old songs are twitching
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| With the knees that are pitching
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| And the fair world’s a-grinning
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| And the old spinning
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| To the place where he lived
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| And the room that he died in
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| There’s a new song playing on the radio that night
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| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| He operates on a low frequency
|
| To take down the pillars of our society
|
| Walking out of sadness, walking out of grief
|
| He’s walking out of badness and walking like a thief
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| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| I collaborate with spirit
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| I helped it find its way back to me
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| Where I’ve been with myself on my way
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| On my way to the old man in the kitchen on my way
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| To the broken-hearted people who all who say
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead
|
| Oh oh, raising the dead, raising the dead
|
| Raising the dead |