Counter The Strike! Poem by Tyton Toste

Load it up,
Run ahead;
Take no quarter
'Till all is dead.

Sniper rifles?
This kid is cheap.
Has no style,
And is a creep.

Another man
Comes to play.
Grabs an A.K.
To save the day.

Sniper kid;
He's winning
While the round
Is still beginning.

A.K. Man;
He's fair game,
Few close calls
With bullets in frame.

But now
Its one on one.
The sniper kid
Versus the A.K. run.

Back to cover;
The Man resorts.
While the sniper fires
Through walls and sorts.

But from behind,
The man creeps
From a passage;
From the deeps.

Raises his knife,
And jams it in...
The sniper only THOUGHT
That he could win.

Standing above
The trickled gore,
And the corpse.
He makes a roar.

His roar; one word.
More shocking than 'Boob',
From his microphone,
Rings the word, 'NOOB! '