In the halls of the mountain king,
stands a dwarf wearing seven rings.
Upon his head he wears a crown,
forged from the poorest of dwarven town.
In his hands he wields an ax,
polished lightly with bees wax.
His armor shines with heavenly radiance,
Made of metals offered as penance.
His gruff voice commanding,
Receiving whatever asked no matter how demanding.
Ages he's seen and generations he's fought,
Life's greatest lesson he has yet to have been taught.
Ancient and worn like a statue of stone,
He makes it a point to be well known.
He lays on his bed in final thought,
Pondering all the things he's wrought.
He whispers few words as his eyes close shut,
His ax his servants lay on his gut.
As his subjects morn and whimper in waiting,
His spirit is freed while his deeds forever remain circulating.