Twirling neatly on the heels and balls of your toes

Hidden in a leaf-made frock, and wooden shoes

Not a shine, nor a point in sight at all

Just another stereotype, like that of our songs of joy

An elf, in reality, actually finds herself quite melancholy

If a word should ever be able to capture her state of mind.

Seconds, and minutes, and hours of daylight pass

Her single achievement, her life once lovely with splendor, a lie

Terrible wonder, a sight to behold

But beware, for if the ghost of a smile should play upon your lips

You, too, will be cursed to sing a song of despair for your eternity

To entertain both sun and moon

Whether rain or snow, or hellish ice

You will not be able to escape the spells of the dance that confound

And capture even she the most sly

Of elves.