Stretching to either side of the head,
Red and with a skin not affected by fire,
Standing with his claws outstretched,
Pitchfork lean and narrow bladed,
Poking into the sides of sinners,
Making them bleed so heavily.
These are the chairman,
Of Hell—and it’s denizens.
They do not get to escape,
But the demons and devils might just go looking,
For those that they also would like to taint,
With their flesh-rending ways,
And their cackling laughs forever.
They are but a part of the experience,
That will befall those who Satan and God consider…
And woe is for them.