What a flattering question! Alas, I am tied up with work this fine evening, but perhaps you haven’t seen my pre-posted, though on-topic, “Schreiberballade”?

Die Schreiberballade

The wind was in the Southern alps,
   Ocktoberfest was past,
And there upon the mountain heath
   I met a man aghast.

He sat beside an empty sack,
   In Schreiberhosen clad;
“My father’s name, my father’s name!”
   His voice was passing sad.

“Oh, stranger, who art thou?” I called
   And hastened to his side.
“Why dost thou on the mountain heath
   Thus mortify thy pride?”

“I was a prince,” he weeping said,
   ”Across the western sea,
My brother was a mighty king,
   More powerful than me.

“I sensed it was my fate to reign,
   I coveted his throne;
My treachery was kept in check
   By lack of funds alone.

“By chance, one woeful winter morn,
   (Forget, I never shall!)
My steps sought out the magic vale
   They call the Schreibertal:

“Like silver shine that valley’s fields,
   A gilded pleasure-park;
The blooms upon the trees appear
   As dollar, franc, and mark.

“And as I wandered, now I heard
   The piping of a flute,
And to my ears the song described
   The joy of German loot.

“Beneath a tree the piper sat,
   The music reached an end;
Now up he leapt and shook my hand
   And smiled just like a friend.

“No more than four feet tall he stood,
   All ruddy was his hide;
But as he danced about I felt
   A twinge of Schreiberleid.

“”Now thou art come,” the wight declared,
   “We’ve long awaited thee
In Schreibertal we understand
   No throne is bought for free.

“”Thou wouldst ascend? Then I shall help!
   Thou art a Schreiberfreund.
This money and thy kingly dream
   My piping hath conjoined.”

“Just so the Schreiberhobbit spoke
   And ope’d a sack of gold;
And countless glistening coins were there,
   A wonder to behold;

“”But first there is a price,” he said,
   ”A footnote to thy fame:
Not now, not now, but yet someday
   Shalt owe thy father’s name.”

“The gold was fair, and in my mind
   I pictured my renown;
The gold was fair, and on my head
   I felt my brother’s crown.”

“Stop there, poor prince!” I cried, appalled –
   My teeth began to gnash –
“Or tell me, for G-d’s sake, that thou
   Didst spurn th’ enchanted cash!”

“Alas!” he wailed, with staring eyes,
   ”As though by hell impelled,
As helpless as in evil dreams,
   I took the Schreibergeld.

“Then back I went, and with my haul
   I gave my brother grief:
My thanes flew to my banner bright,
   Securing me the fief.

“For nine sweet years I reigned in bliss,
   In battle triumphed twice,
But in the glory of myself
   Forgot the Schreiberpreis.

“One night, between the royal sheets,
   Just as the midnight neared,
I woke and heard a raven squawk:
   The elfin sprite appeared.

“I would not pay — I would not go –
   The cash was all but spent –
I bade him flee to Schreibertal;
   He vowed I would repent.

“No dungeon guards could hold him back,
   But from the walls he spoke:
My father’s name he soon destroyed
   Before the frightened folk.

“My castle burnt, my sceptre snapped,
   With empty sack I roam:
Behold me now, my friend, and dread
   The vengeance of a gnome!”

So spoke the broken prince, and wept,
   And could not be appeased;
I fled across the mountain heath
   By haunting horror seized;

But in my ears his words ring still
   Like echoes from a tomb;
To all the world I propagate
   The lesson of his doom:

Oh, do not swear a Schreiberschwur
   To be a Schreiberheld!
Go never into Schreibertal
   To seek the Schreibergeld!