He could fly. It was his job. Across battle fields, And bloody bogs. Spread his wings, Took to the skies. And he was safe Every time he flies. But there were some, Who could not fly. And to see him soar, Always made them cry So they'd shoot, Their Jealous arrows. They'd cut him down, They were such nasty fellows. Occasionally, They hit him. And the pain would burn, A hole into his skin. So he built, Some heavy armor. And each time he was hit, It would only make him stronger. Eventually It weighed him down So much weight, He could neither smile nor frown. And his wings, Lacked the strength to fly. So he spent his days, Dreaming of the sky.