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A narrow path runs along the river |
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From the burial ground you might see it |
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Leading to a temple of secrets |
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Where they meet once a week to dance and feast |
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Lula is dancing to the voodoo drums |
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Twisting, turning, all round and round |
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She is ready to receive the loa |
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She is ready for the God, this one is Damballah |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Total emptiness inside |
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As Damballah gets ready for her ride |
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Casting out from Lula's head |
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One of two souls that seems to be dead |
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Traveling deep in a trance |
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Lulas legs are getting weak |
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The loa has seized it's horse |
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Lula is not the one, she is not that's speaking now |
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Lula is not the one, the one that's lying down |
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Drink, drink girl, drink the chicken's blood |
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Drink, drink girl, drink and feed the God |
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If this is all you think they do |
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Oh, you better think again |
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'Cause there is so much more to voodoo |
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Oh, than meets the eye |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Human hair on waxen dolls, pins through their knees |
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Pins through their little heads and through their bellies |
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Ahh, they're coming to get you, they're coming for you |
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Ahh, they're coming to get you, they're coming for you now |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo, voodoo, voodoo |
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Voodoo |