On edge of Earth this creature dwells.
He's bearded, plump and tall.
Enslaved he bunch of Irish elves
And moved them to Noth Pole.
For many years the elves work hard,
Their eyes are blind by tears,
But he is praised for works of art
And magic which he steals.
He gave to charity surplus.
The net began to weave.
The elves still work and work. Alas,
No pension or sick leave.
The elves can't leave enchanted dome
For outside is cold.
They get accustomed to new home
Still homesick for old.
Rebellion grows inside their stall,
Inside their wooden shed.
For they are Irish after all,
With traction to bloodshed.
They dream to fight, to overcome,
To free one day themselves.
Break free from shackles and become
Again once mighty elves!