There sits a crimson satyr crowned
The overlord of underground
In left he twirls a steely blight
Upon the surface world by night
With right commands his vile jest
To welcome avarice, his guest
The next of sin to him akin
To all the wicked souls therein
The boiling cauldron antechamber
Brimming with his seething anger
Pain and sorrow, anguish of
One fallen from the grace of love
And in its hellish rendezvous
A shadow deal to conquer you
Is sealed in some ungodly tongue
The hook upon which faith is hung