The flame, she danced, above the lighter
The base: the bishop; the top: the mitre
And as she danced, her red eyes saw
A beauty, elegance, dropping-jaw
So she spread along the floor
Her dress: a trail to follow more
She reached her hand out toward the man
The beauty smiled at the gesture
"Oh dear," he started at the hand,
"I say, stay back, you damn molestor"
The flame did gasp; tried not to call
"I'm sorry, sir, your beauty's tall
I can't resist your charm," she said
Oh, but so the beauty'd dread
"Your hands are sweet, your thoughts are nice,
But understand: my heart's of ice.
And melt, I would, in your warm grasp,
So, please, dear, recognise the rasp."
"Aye," she sighed with sad orange eyes
Behold: the flame who loved the ice