Elves love to go to Monaco.
If they so much as spy its azure sky –
or sniff the barest whiff of perfumed Riviera air –
or dare to dip the tips of elfin toes into the diamond foam
and turquoise water lapping, kissing, licking at the pearly beach –
they’re blissfully beyond all reach.
They love the place so well
it turns their skin to sweet varieties of pale pastel.
(No elf gambles.
One once tried:
it turned his trip
into a shambles.
However, though it prods him closer to that vice
so nearly fatal to an elfin life, and therefore isn’t very nice,
sometimes an elf will shoot a yearning look into a luxe casino
at those happy hapless gamblers throwing dice.)
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