No angle sit on my shoulder,

Nor a devil with its fork,

They manifest themselves inside and my vision they contort.

My angles wigs are long and black, the soft feathers of a raven.

And behind hands all soft and white, hide claws long and misshapen.

So pretty and so perfectly sits a halo upon my head,

But my halos glow is not of gold but a radiant bright blood red.

It seems I am a devil more,

Each time I start sinning.

But if I still look like an angel,

Is the devil or angel winning?