This fiend, he's black
but not in colour.

He tracks: not you
but your brothers' brother.

He wins and jeers
and sits and cheers
and loses and who says
strange words that confuses.

But for all his whim
and dashing trim
he's bound up, wound up,
he's ready for sin.

This skin he bears, drained and cold,
grows thin with wear, and frees his soul.

The Prantercalt lives inside
he's cosy, got a stellar ride,
but anger burning,
envy churning,
these the weapons at his side.
Don't let him out,
he'll run about,
and you'll find your mind'a turnin.