From devil's fire and angel's care denied
a child erupted on the scene of man,
spat forth by hate's abandonment, he cried
for chill-bit air unfair and Satan's hand.

He burgeoned to a bard of purest light,
a legend 'cross the land and 'neath the seas,
his voice a heaven's symphony of might;
he smote the dogs of war with passioned pleas

but ever lurking in his baritone
the evil of his origins consumed
in tiny morsels every hope he owned
until his muse's call became festooned

with sacraments of all his vicious needs,
the gifts abuse had writ into his creed.


He sought the darkest corners of the lands
to ply his trade for lust and hate-spawned fans.

As decades sought retreat, his tunes transformed
from aching bliss to screams of ailing joy
until he was an aria adorned
in blood and vice and avarice-soaked ploys.

But then a battle called unto his dark;
'pon night's stage, angels fought his demon kin.
A seraphim fell torn and mumbled, "Hark,
fair child, your voice can gift you peace within."

He sang a song that thrilled the very air,
swept up on sparks of hope that crushed dismay.
The battle faltered, both sides wept and stared:
the child with voice of light had brought the day.