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