The muzzle velocity is like cake.
It’s a dish that is eaten at a speed
That approaches a dessert that must bake.
To digest the round would satisfy needs.
As it soars through the air, the batter holds.
Every bit of the ammunition calls.
Until the cake turns green and starts to mold.
Once the target is reached, the pastry falls.
Whoever tickles the trigger knows how
To fire a moist, layer confection
As the round zooms with sugar, now
There’s a saccharine sense of connection.
The journey of a M16 round is sweet.
The sugary taste of carbon’s a treat.