There was once a time,
That I ran with a band of mercenaries.
Sometimes I sit back in my leather-bound chair,
And remember all of them, clear as day…
The quick, sly Boston lad,
Haphazardly dodges and shoots
His way through the crowds of enemies,
Focused, yet also laid back,
As he easily steals the enemies’ command points.
The patriotic rocketman,
Master of the Art of War,
Who knows the enemy as well as himself.
He destroys all in his path,
Uses the explosions to his advantage,
To craft himself newfound speed and agility.
The mysterious masked man,
Sets what he sees alight in orange flame.
Unremorseful, black eyes survey the battlefield
For new targets to embalm in searing light.
The black, eyepatched drunkard,
Even if he is sloshed in the heat of the fight,
He still finds the determination and resolve,
To defend his team, aid his fellow men in the battle.
The tankish Russian,
With his Iron Curtain
And his fists of steel,
Rips through the endlesss tide of enemy troops,
Like an angered bear beating its way through the forest.
The Texan hard-hat,
Swinging his wrench, working his brow,
His machines dispense fortune to his friends,
And also unload death into his foes.
The majestic healer,
In his hands he holds great power:
He brings the sunshine of life to the dying,
And he brings the red surge of revenge to the living.
The slender assassin,
Like a hunter, he sees his target.
They can run, try to escape the predator, but
Nobody can escape his all-seeing eye of death.
The invisible secret agent,
Master of disguise, he infiltrates his enemies,
Then stabs them in the back,
And wipes their blood from his suit as he cackles.
This is the Team,
The ever-ready band of mercenaries,
Attackers of the enemy Fortress,
Defenders of the gravel pits.
That unforgettable Team,
Always ready for battle.