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?