Long ago, in days of old,
To mortal men the elf-kind sold,
Great treasures of magic and lore.
They do no more,
For to a king of mortal descent,
One of the elf-kind lent,
A rosebush of a magical kind,
Midnight hued roses, petals star lined.
There was but one condition,
That everyday without omission,
A rosebush pruning must take place.
If alas that was not the case,
Than any curse the elf saw fit,
The king's own land would suffer it.
A blizzard came in January.
Oh, mortal, be wary.
And, my friend, it was so cold,
The king could not his promise hold.
And when that icy night's moon rose,
And all were in a gentle doze,
The elf appeared with anger grim,
A promise was broken to him.
Unto the king he sorrowfully said,
"Till all within this land lie dead,
For millennia, to the end of time,
All in this land shall speak in rhyme."
And unto that elf we owe it,
That all within that land turned poet.
Sara Mabry Meriwether Slemmons