Текст пісні
Gather close, you leaf-eared lot,
And hear a tale that time forgot.
Of an elven lad with face so bare,
And dreams of whiskers fine and rare.
In Silvershine where moonlight spills,
And every elf drinks dew from hills,
There lived young Thalanil the Fair,
Whose chin was cursed with naught but air.
His hair flowed long, his brows were sleek,
His cheekbones sharp, his style unique-
But oh, his soul, it yearned so deep,
For beardly bristles he could keep.
He tried with moss, he tried with glue,
He tied on twigs with elven brew.
He chanted scrolls, he hummed old hymns,
He shaved a badger on a whim.
His kinfolk laughed with airy grace,
"No beards shall bloom on elf-kind face!"
They offered oils for shiny skin-
But not a whisker dared begin.
So Thalanil set out one dawn,
Past crystal brooks and elms wind-blown.
To lands where dwarves did dig and snore,
With whiskers thick and cheeks galore.
He sought the aid of Grumble Vein,
A dwarven witch with braid and cane.
Her cottage smelled of earth and pine,
And beard-care jars in crooked line.
She squinted close and gave a smirk,
"You want a beard? Then this will work."
She brewed a draught with roots and ash,
And charged him one full gemstone stash.
He drank it down with hopeful gasp,
And felt a tickle start to clasp.
A tingle crawled across his chin-
A forest sprouted out within!
His beard was gold with hints of green,
A braided beauty, lush and clean.
It shimmered bright, it waved in wind,
A miracle for elvenkind!
But wait! For though his beard was prime,
It tangled leaves and ate his time.
And no elf shops in Silvershine,
Sold wax or combs or balm so fine!
He ordered goods from distant town,
But dwarven post kept turning 'round.
They'd write: "To beardy elf, with glee,"
And send it back to "mystery."
So every week he'd walk six days,
To groom his chin with dwarven ways.
And every brushstroke cost him dear-
In stares, in jokes, in braided sneer.
Still Thalanil stood proud and tall,
A bearded elf despite it all.
And though his kin stayed smooth and bare,
They envied that bold facial flair.
He posed in portraits, signed in twine,
Became the face of beard-care line.
Though elf by birth and grace of yore-
He now had dwarves at every door!
Oh raise your cups for those who stray,
From customs old or smooth cliché.
A beard may grow where none expect-
With pride, with sass, with side effect!
So if you're judged by chin too fair,
Go find a witch with time to spare.
For deep within each shaven lad-
May live a beard just waiting... mad.