His eyes were bright, his cloak was ragg'd
His face was dangerously fey
He rode in with a hundred men
Just at the break of day
His voice was sweet and cold as water
His words were hard as stone
"I'll have what's mine" he ordered
"Or leave you blood and bone."
The Dwarves laughed into their beards
No force their halls prevail
They left him standing in the wind
Alone upon the trail
He turned away with a smile
And entered in the town
And listened to his Men carouse
Pride would be folly's crown
He entered in the dead of night
The guards all fast asleep
No raven, dwarf nor fire stirred
He 'spelled the total keep
The maze of halls was no defense
The stone of walls no test
He made his way unto the graves
Where Durins had their rest
He shattered doors and locks alike
Walls fell with a groan
He broke the grave with just one stroke
And stole the Arkenstone
He left the halls, he left the walls
A shadow banned by morning
Took his men and rode away
But left one last warning
"Fortress high and armies strong
My wrath will spare none
For those who hold a Silmaril
'Ware Feanor's last son!"
Elrond finished reading, then looked up at the composer. "It's no Noldolante."
"I've already written one epic about the gems, I wanted to try something different this time." His father lounged back with a smile. "Did it make you laugh?"
"Was it supposed to?" Elrond considered the poem again. "You know, Thranduil sent me a letter just after you had left Dale and Erebor. He certainly thought the whole thing was funny. If you want an audience who'll appreciate the humor, you should perform this for him."
"I rather doubt young Thranduil is much inclined to host a Noldor singer, even if I did drive all of Erebor around the bend." Maglor idly juggled the Arkenstone and his gold cloak-pin, with one hand, reminding Elrond of his father's attempts to teach Elros the same skill. The dancing gold and silver lights illuminated the study, an incongruously mundane use for the greatest treasures of the First Age.
"Still, I'm surprised. Considering this about what you did, this poem is amazingly … inaccurate."
"Well, yes. But the whole thing was pretty boring. Who'd want to hear what actually happened?"