When an Elf is a year and a minute
He can wear a cap with a feather in it.
By the time he is two times two
He has a buckle for either shoe.
At twenty he is fine as a fiddle,
With a little brown belt to go round his middle.
When he's lived for fifty years or so
His coat may have buttons all in a row.
If past three score and ten he's grown
Two pockets he has for his very own.
At eighty-two or three years old
They bulge and jingle with bits of gold.
But when he's a hundred and a day
He gets a little pipe to play!
A little watercolor card I made today to accompany a parcel. On the back I wrote out this little poem.