Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!

Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, back in that hole Larry made his nest up in the autumn branches Built from nothing but high hopes and thin air Collected up some baby blasted mothers They took their chances and for a while They lived quite happily up there He came from New York City Man But he couldn't take the pace He thought it was like a dog-eat-dog world But he went to San Francisco Spent a year in outer-space With a sweet little San Franciscan girl I can hear my mother wailing And a whole lot of scraping of chairs I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something going on upstairs (Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, back in that hole) (I want you to dig I want you to dig) Yeah, New York City, he had to get out of there And San Francisco, well, I don't know And then to LA, where he spent about a day He thought even the pale sky-stars were smart enough to keep well away from LA Meanwhile Larry made up names for the ladies Like Miss Boo and Miss Quick He stockpiled weapons and took pot shots in the air He feasted on their lovely bodies like a lunatic And wrapped himself up in their soft yellow hair I can hear chants and incantations And some guy is mentioning me in his prayers I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something going on upstairs (Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, back in that hole) (I want you to dig I want you to dig I want you to dig) Well New York City Man, San Francisco, LA, I don't know But Larry grew increasing neurotic and obscene I mean: he, he never asked to be raised up from the tomb I mean: no one ever actually asked him to forsake his dreams Anyway, to cut a long story short Fame finally found him Mirrors became his torturers Cameras snapped him at every chance The women all went back to their homes And their husbands With secret smiles in the corners of their mouths He ended up, like so many of them do, back in the streets of New York City In a soup queue A dope fiend A slave Then prison Then the mad house Then the grave Oh poor Larry But what do we really know of the dead And who actually cares? Well I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something going on upstairs (Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, Lazarus Dig Yourself, back in that hole) (I want you to dig I want you to dig I want you to dig)