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He could fly.
Was his job.
'Cross battle fields,
And bloody bogs.

Spread his wings,
Took the skies.
And he was safe
Every time he flies.

But there were some,
Who could not fly.
And to see him soar,
Always made them cry

So they'd shoot,
Their Jealous arrows.
Call him names,
They were such nasty fellows.

Occasionally,
They would hit him.
And the pain would burn,
A hole into his skin.

So he built,
Some heavy armor.
And each time he was hit,
It would only make him stronger.

Eventually
It weighed down
So much weight,
He could neither smile nor frown.

And his wings,
Lacked the strength to fly.
So he spent his days,
Dreaming of the sky.

Text přidal Hengeyokai

Video přidal Scoth

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