Every elf has their job,
Be they rich or poor, great or small.
Some are yet cobblers, and yet tinkers,
And some are yet gardners with a pinch o’ green.
O! To be one of the star-elves, though.
'Tis a most devout occupation and none better.
Why, to clean the brilliant glass orbs
And ignite the holy flames within the spheres
That all worlds will have light and life and time!
But woe to them who shuck their vows
And woe to them who know naught of hours.
Yea, even elves have to keep time,
Making the waxing and waning of Mother Moon
And when to scurry away before the Big Men return.
The Slowfeet elves are called a lot of louts
And clapped ‘round the ear when spotted in the den.
They’re the ones who go ‘round telling Big Men tales
Filling their heads with a lot of nonsense about gold.
No gold waits for the Slowfeet elves
Nor for the Big Men they entertain.
Only the work remains to be done,
For the elves to keep the time and space,
And for all to be made well again.