Raised in Hell, one of three, all forged in dragon fire
Astaroth, is from the flaming pit, of the burning shire
In faux gods we trust, as the others revere his name
Sent to condemn and damn us, with his dying flame
Evil trinitarian, there is nothing in his stagnant heart
Darkness is his domain and his horrors a form of art
Insane in second sight and eyes like piercing tracers
No one lives in his gaze, or claws as sharp as razors
He will avenge, by using garrotting wires for snitches
Endearing himself, to old banshees and hag witches
Let no one doubt, that he is aligned to Hades throne
Lords of the unholy trinity though, never gorge alone
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