No information given. On purpose. Suck it. Enjoy the poetry.

The head of the team did rise,
His coat as red as a rose.
In the Art of War he was wise,
Always on his toes.
A rocket launcher he held,
along with a shotgun.
By rockets many were felled.
His equipment weighed a ton.
The soldier is his name.
His scream was load and clear,
No other rivaled his fame,
His crit rockets to many eyes brought a tear.



Not far behind the Pyro follows,
A gas mask muffling his voice,
He hides in wait of prey in hallows.
As a spy checker, he is a fine choice.
From his flamethrower erupts fire,
Along with that he has an ax.
Of burning things he never does tire,
And his enemies must watch their backs.
Another suprise lies in the airblast,
Projectiles turned back with ease.
Arrows turned back quite fast
often cuts through snipers like cheese.

Next to him stood the speedy scout,
Whose agility has no rival.
These skills are useful in a rout,
And bad for his oppenent's survival.
Past sentries, heavies and snipers he flies,
BONK the engineer, BONK the sniper,
Bat in hand, hitting skulls - BONK! He cries!
Many would call this Bostonian hyper.
Others say he is a prolific requester,
Always with many things to say,
Such as "need a dispenser!"
Leaping ahead, first to the fray.




Pistol-whipping should not be confused with buttstroking, a close combat military discipline.