My friend who trod where angels tread
Spoke of the voices in his head
Inventions, fictions and the dead
All talked to him at night in bed
The voices, oh, the voices, oh
The voices in his head
When logic, sense and reason fled
He clung like spiders do to thread
A person guided, driven, led
By voices anchored in his head
The voices, oh, the voices, oh
The voices in his head
The voices, oh, the voices, oh
The voices in his... head
Stampeding through his brain, there sped
A bestiary that brewed and bred
With bits from books he claimed he'd read
And these became what filled his head
He listened, eaten up with dread
To what this spider-web had spread
A litany spat, shat and bled
A blood-red nightmare in his head
And though he heard the words we said
They came to him with meaning shed
And so he chose to heed instead
The words he heard inside his head
This weird world to which he's wed
Becomes his butter, beef and bread
Till all around, behind, ahead
The undead tread within his head
They talk and he gives them full cred
No proof. In truth, there's none, no shred
Yet they're his all, his a-to-zed
The universe inside his head.
The voices, oh, the voices, oh
The voices in his head
The voices, oh, the voices, oh
The voices in his... head