Coldest War- a TF2 Poem by Blades



A feud, two sons, two teams cause explosions

Men fight, build death, spew flame and are chosen,

But she, a voice that sees our time stolen

Gives pay, guns, drinks to drown old sins,

The two scouts close in, fast with exposed grins

Merchants of death, bullets travel in slow motion,

Three beeps, a pause, and coats are ripped open,

As crows sing for the leftovers the mercs bring,

Men collect ammo, disappear as the shots ring,

And wash the blood off of the knives in a cold spring,

It’s nothing new, two ancient old kin,

Those who chase gravel, but only who’s ghosts win,

Don't say that it don't sting, knowing the cold things,

Embrace the job soldier, tighten your coat strings.