Dr. Lindsay:
"Oh, isn't it nice, falling and hating me! Here, breathing the air through Lindsay's trachea! Oh, rendered and torn, spilling my glass to the floor... hands in my hair, pulling and patiently dying... 'Why are you here?' were my words and I screamed them. 'Could you destroy a man in midday?'"

Arkham Deadfly:
"Dreaming and evening, so are we twins! Listen, I whisper, your lips, how they twitch! The doorway is swarming with larva today, squirming and screaming as friendly men play! Thou art the empty, I am the thin! We are the bending blade stuck in your ribs! Thou art the tempest, I am the wind! We are the fallen man, tortured and skinned!"

"I've run this way twice before, and always the rats wading through dust. Doctor, silent and still, were you calling to me? The skies overhead have been crowded with wings, and hear the flies, how they sing! I've inched my way through mist before, and always the bugs leading my lungs! Doctor, silent and still, were you calling to me? The skies overhead have been crowded with wings, but hear the flies, how they sing!"

Greensward Grey
There is blood on the hooves of the fawns on the Greensward Grey for they tread through the gristle on the lawn today! Don't they see the roseate faces of my wives as they lay, disemboweled, on the Greensward Grey?

Chorus One
This park is rank and slippery! Skip and watch the kite tails, don't trip on the entrails! White, and ligamental blossoms jutting from the earth... when have toadstools ever grown toenails?

Chorus Two
These brains are old and tired but they have not forgotten my harem from decades past, sundry screams for the beast in the backseat!

Bridge
Springtime is mythical, blood can be pastoral brushed-on and painted after they've fainted! Pan-goats are criminal! Hairy backs and abyssmal breath like a brown bog, swamp-soaked and wet dog!

There is one woman walking on the Greensward Grey, but I feel she'll be followed by a friend or three! Don't they see the pink-spittle coating on my teeth that will seal every kiss from my lips today!

Chorus Three
I could classify dead, hooved animals! I could catalog female corpses! But cattarh ruins my breath when grasses reach and start my ending! I could classify! I could catalog!

I am sitting like a cyst on the Greensward Grey and my god! there are satyrs who are damp and fey! Iron-shod and so hysterical! They lose themselves like dripping red fauna!