Satan’s Angel,
He sits on a throne,
A throne with a tone,
A maddening tune,
Mad he sits,
Eerily, tearfully cold as winter’s stone.
Insane.
This throne made of stone,
Satan’s Angel sits on with bone,
His boney hands,
His boney legs,
His boney body,
He’s boney, and yet he’s lonely,
He sits on his throne of belligerence, intelligence, and malevolence,
Pondering his place in Satan’s Haven,
Satan’s saved den,
Satan saved him from God’s right-hand on high,
But from the highest height,
He travels far into the night,
Deep in intense fright,
He takes the lives of those unworthy,
To live,
To die,
He is quite scurvy.
His surveillance sees all,
Never taking a fall,
Or cease of his looking,
At all,
At all.
Satan’s Haven,
Satan’s Raven,
Is Satan’s minion,
Satan’s dominion,
Satan’s Angel,
Is who he is,
Satan’s Angel,
That’s how he lives,
In fear of those around him,
Satan’s minions, they all surround him,
Satan’s dominion, containing all of Satan’s minions,
All holding the omniscient opinion,
That Satan is of a stature,
In the social ladder,
The latter,
Being they, at the bottom,
He got them,
He got them.
He got, found, conquered hell,
Only to find, that his life was a cell,
Satan’s Angels, they anticipate death,
So that they may rest,
And return to Satan’s desk,
Where his interns,
Pick out a chest,
A chest of love,
A chest of hate,
A chest of who they will take or make,
Into the next Satan’s Angel,
There’s no way out,
There’s no way out…
Satan’s Angels will always be there,
Satan’s Angels shall always be squared,
Away in a corner until they become of use,
Away in a corner to suffer more abuse…