Cursed, he is, to ever roam
Across the wicked, barren plain.
But always he will be alone
Until he's driven quite insane.

A demon's fitting punishment
For crimes he has committed.
His head bowed low and his back bent,
The pain equal and fitted.

Cursed, he is, to burn in fire,
The hottest flames of Hell.
The place reserved for cheats and liars
Those who in hate dwell.

Judgement day, the day all souls
Are weighed. While some in tears
Will fall into their deep, dark holes,
The ones they dug for years.

Cursed, he is, to never love
Cause love's pure touch will burn him.
He'll never quite see the white heavens above,
He'll never quite hear angels' hymns.

His soul is like ink, the blackest of blacks,
A starless, moonless night.
The very brilliancy it lacks
Is demon's food and light.

Cursed, he is, to fall so low
As low as he deserves.
The demon screams his cries of woe.
The next one waits, unnerved.