It’s not kick you in the face spicy,
It’s slap you upside the head feisty.
The little round soldier first attacked the throat,
Charging across a fiery moat,
Bringing all the heat, any one could muster
Causing the complexion surely to fluster
The tears begin to swell
As the fire, it constantly dwells
The soldier entering his little hut
Nestled firmly within the gut
The rain soon begins to fall
But the soldier, he stands tall
The water, looking to quench his fire
The soldier, climbing his aching spire
Shooting the flaming arrows off
Forcing his victim to violently cough
Now any other would plead for the rich man’s robes of silk
Except the victim, only wishing to guzzle some warm milk
Ushering in a wave of relief
Though the feeling, only fleeting and brief.