Dig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, back in that holennLarry made his nest up in the autumn branchesnBuilt from nothing but high hopes and thin airnCollected up some baby blasted mothers nThey took their chances and for a whilenThey lived quite happily up therennHe came from New York City MannBut he couldn't take the pacenHe thought it was like a dog eat dog worldnBut he went to San FrancisconSpent a year in outer spacenWith a sweet little San Franciscan girlnnI can hear my mother wailingnAnd a whole lot of scraping of chairsnnI don't know what it is, but there's definitely something going on upstairsnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, back in that holen(I want you to dignI want you to dig)nnYeah, New York City, he had to get out of therenAnd San Francisco, well, I don't knownAnd then to LA, where he spent about a daynHe thought even the pale sky-stars were smart enough to keep well away from LAnnMeanwhile Larry made up names for the ladiesnLike Ms Boo and Ms QuicknHe stockpiled weapons and took pot shots in the airnHe feasted on their lovely bodies like a lunaticnAnd wrapped himself up in their soft yellow hairnnI can hear chants and incantationsnAnd some guy is mentioning me in his prayersnnI don't know what it is, but there's definitely something going on upstairsnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, back in that holen(I want you to dignI want you to dignI want you to dig)nnWell New York City Man,nSan Francisco, LA, I don't knownBut Larry grew increasing neurotic and obscenenI mean: he, he never asked to be raised up from the tombnI mean no one ever actually asked him to forsake his dreamsnnAnyway, to cut a long story shortnFame finally found himnMirrors became his torturersnCameras snapped him at every chancenThe women all went back to their homesnAnd their husbandsnSecret smiles in the corners of their mouthsnnHe ended up, like so many of them do, back in the streets of New York CitynIn a soup queuenA dope fiendnA slavenThen prisonnThen the mad housenThen the gravenOh poor LarrynnBut what do we really know of the deadnAnd who actually cares?nnWell I don't know what it is, but there's definitely something going on upstairsnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, LazarusnDig yourself, back in that holen(I want you to dignI want you to dignI want you to dig)