Horns from pate are what sprout from D. C.;
He came up to the earth, sent from hell's gate.
Guy has grown horns from pate.

Horns on pate. He came from below, not above.
Got ire, breathes fire; he's Satan's mate,
And he has a shorn pate.

He tries to get the spikes covered
With some skin-tone putty.
He strongly will hiss at you
If you question him in D.C.

For he has. . .

Horns on pate. . . can't hide with hair.
And his heart's wired--
Sometimes docs must defibrillate
To help resuscitate.

Scorn awaits persons who dare
To ask him why
Things just are not going so great:
He will scorn that you pra-a-a-a-ate,
As rise the horns from pate.

Nick's mate.