She set out for revenge, to run them through, to do what an elf, an elf must do.” The next verse was Merrill’s to improvise. “Climbed that roost, alighted right there. Made mush of his head for the onlooker bears.” “A two-pronged her prize, a meat most rare. Do-gooders will pay. Do-gooders will fear.” “Ballad of the loneliest ones,” lamented Merrill. “The loneliest ones,” said Alma. She accepted that title; they were the loneliest. The elf gloomed.

Where Madness Roosts