You’ve got the kind of look that Satan wears
When he’s pleased with what he’s done
When his victims weak and shaking
Begging for compassion 

Dangling by his ankles 
All hope he had is lost
He’s left without a word
He could never afford your cost

Yet you stare into his eyes
Ignoring pangs of mercy
You wish the worst for all 
Even those undeserving

Should he chose to fight back
He’s only asking to be tortured
His every punch no less than futile
His every cry no more than whispered