Lies of the Living Dead

They call it paradise
… purple leaves
The sound of silver flutes
The jam of honey bees
Oh I am getting so sick of the lies, the lies, the lies
Of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
And there’s no religion,
And rabbits rub your feet
My baby is eating flowers,
That kill of all diseases
Oh I am getting so sick of the lies, the lies, the lies
Of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Those elevator clouds
And bugs that braid your hair,
This often golden place,
That is supposedly somewhere
Oh I am getting so sick of the lies, the lies, the lies
Of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead
Lie, lie, lies of the living dead