I feel as if I have
Been buried alive
For the best part of five hundred years,
My body encased
In a mountain of waste
Until one day my face reappears,
My limbs, they are bent
With the years they have spent
In positions tormenting my soul,
But now they are free
To emancipate me
From the celibacy of this hole.

So turn in your grave, Turn in your grave,
Hold back the incoming wave. Hold back the incoming wave.

Warm wind in my face
Like the linen and lace
Soft surrounding her waist like a mask.
Fresh air in my lungs
Like the sharing of songs
Pleasure tripping our tongues through the grass
New blood in my veins
Like red Indian rain
Stripping us of all shame we possess
With tears in my eyes
And with anguish I cry:
“I was free all the time, I confess!”

So turn in your grave, Turn in your grave,
Hold back the incoming wave. Hold back the incoming wave.
So turn in your grave, Turn in your grave,
Hold back the incoming wave. Hold back the incoming wave.

Turn in your grave, Turn in your grave,
Hold back the incoming wave. Hold back the incoming wave.
Well, Indian rain,
Indian rain.

So turn in your grave, Turn in your grave,
Hold back the incoming wave. Hold back the incoming wave.
Of Indian rain,
Indian rain.