The devil sat upon his toasted grieving red throne
Gulping his tongue, the devil never stressed
She seduced his powerful taste
He knew she was a lost soul, out of control
She was a walking mess, who was taking her toll
He had no business taking a hit to his statured entitlement
He promised to distinguish her from the rest, implicating a battle every dawning blue sky
His threats do not scare her passion to fight
She's a rampage with braided hair and an innocent glare
Zip up your sweater vest, here comes Hells pest