“the futility of playing against spawncamping demomen in team fortress 2”

In a cornered world beneath the bluish sky,  
I clutch my scattergun and softly sigh—  
Respawn lights flicker, hope’s quick to bloom,  
But the spawnroom doors spell out my tomb.  

Outside, echoes roll like a sinister drum  
As stickybombs bloom—the demoman’s fun.  
He lurks unseen with a cyclopean grin,  
Waiting to net a fresh fish to pin.  

My teammates and I, we ready, we rush,  
But shrapnel leaps up in a merciless gush.  
Back to the void with a BOOM and a scream,  
Revived in the steel of this Sisyphean dream.  

"Change class!" suggests one, with desperate cheer,  
But nowhere to hide, and no route to clear.  
We plot and we joke, we laugh at the pain,  
Prisoners caught in a trap preordained.  

Yet somewhere outside this pixel-wrought cage,  
The world still turns, the sun sets the stage.  
And though we chase, round after round,  
The spawncamping demoman always is found—  

Not as a foe, but the ghost of defeat:  
The lesson in loss, bitter and sweet.  
For in every respawn, no matter our will,  
We learn—sometimes, you’re just standing still.  

So hats off to the men with the bombs and their pride,  
For in Team Fortress, even hope can be fried.  
But we’ll queue for another, for fun still survives,  
In the endless, absurd respawn of our lives.

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