My new best friend, Peregrin Took the Falcon, wrote some words to the song, some words our heroes might have written if they'd skipped the last bottle.

An Instrumental and Vocal Composition Glorying the Tresses of Maedhros by the Same and Fingon, Who Has Pretty Nice Hair for a One-Fourth-Vanya, We Guess

Red is his hair,

Like roses on snow,

The lovely bright red

Of an overripe, squishy, juicy, deliciously sweet tomato.

Maedhros says

That's a bad turn of phrase,

But I personally think

That we're both so Valar-blasted inebriated that it doesn't matter anyways.

And Maedhros says

That it's both of our poem,

But I say instead,

That I'm the one doing all the work anyway, even if it is Russandol's home.

But anyway, back to his

And the glare

When the sun shines upon it

Is so awfully bright that it hurts to look at it, and all the maidens fawn on it.

And now Maedhros says

That that wasn't quite elegant,

But at this point in the poem, and the wine,

Which by the way is delcious and the perfect thing while composing a great masterpiece such as this, anyway right now all his concerns are irrelevant.

And the resplendent glory Of his hair under the moon

Is more than enough

To make any maiden, even the ones who are chasing Cousin Finrod because he has golden hair like Grandmother and yet is still a Noldo, whom everyone knows are the best elf-kindred of all; as I was saying, to make any maiden swoon.

Maedhros is saying

That I'd better write faster

Because we've drunk so much wine now

That he says we're going to emulate those maidens I was talking about before we finish this composition, and that would be a disaster.

Maedhros's hair

Is so hard to compare

To anything else under Laurelin

Because really, there's nothing quite like it anywhere and Maedhros gets offended if you discuss it in a way he considers an imperfect description, and since his glorious russet tresses beggar description, you really just have to see them for yourself, because an analogy can never win.