Whosoever shall speak his name,
Shall do his bidding,
Shall know his game.

For his is the work that man hath tried,
To rid himself of in days gone by.

His voice is sandpaper, rocks, and glass,
His mouth a chasm, dark and vast.
His breath reeks of fire, brimstone, and blood,
And his eyes hold such terror as no man can know.

He speaks of revenge, power, and greed,
But his deeds are wild evil,
And his dungeons teem with corpses in chains.

Who shall follow him?
Speak now, and be damned,
For no man shall speak for you once you have sinned.

The man on your shoulder,
Whom you seek for advice,
Shall bring about your demise,
So a word to the wise:

His words may drip,
With honey and sugar,
But his laughter is laced,
With a beastly animal growl.

He knows where you sit,
And he knows what you want,
So dare not to follow him,
Lest you should receive,
Horrors and pain as you have never imagined,
For all time you shall be his,
His minion,
His pet.