[Intro — Bouncy lute, jaunty fiddle, and a swaggering male baritenor melody. Singing only, no spoken word.] I was raised on elven poetry, On silver cups and courtesy, On moonlit walks and courtly arts, And never once on broken hearts. Then through the tavern door she strode, A mountain wearing boots of hide, Green as moss and twice as broad— And something snapped inside. [Verse 1 — Light, nimble melody with growing infatuation] She grabbed me by the back of my coat And held me up to eye me, “Is this a man or fancy goat? These elven things confound me. You’re all the same—those cheekbones fine, That hair, those hips, that pretty shine. If you’re a lad, then I’ll be damned. Where’s the beard? How can I tell, then?” She set me on her shoulder And called me her new pocket bard. I ought to have been quite afraid. Instead, I fell quite hard. [Pre-Chorus — Fiddle climbs; the singer grows increasingly lovestruck] She smells of iron, smoke, and rain, She laughs like rocks inside a drain, She calls me “twig” and “little sprout”— And gods above, I want to kiss her mouth! [Chorus — Full tavern singalong, stomping rhythm] Oh, I’ve got terrible taste in orcs! I’ve lost my wits, my pride, my thoughts! She calls me “pet,” she calls me “small,” She lifts me up to see over a wall! She’s rude, she’s crude, she’s twice my size, She’s got the manners of a swine! But may the bards sing what they will— I’d climb that green and gruff great hill! Oh, I’ve got terrible taste in orcs! My heart has bolted from the shock! I’m doomed, besotted, quite unwell— And I adore this savage belle! [Verse 2 — Playful, teasing rhythm] She keeps me in a leather pouch Whenever we go roaming, Then tips me out beside the fire When she decides she’s homeward bound. She ruffles up my silver hair As though I’m some enchanted pup. “Good elf! Now sit! And don’t you dare Go wandering off. Stay put!” She pats my head with one great hand, Then grins to see me scowl. “You’re very fierce, I understand— A mighty, angry fowl!” I tell her I’m a noble lord, A scholar, poet, master swordsman. She hands me half a roasted boar. I eat it. I’m in love again. [Pre-Chorus — The fiddle pauses briefly, then returns] She calls my tunic “curtain cloth,” Says elven men look girlish, Then asks if I’m a son or daughter. I’m starting to feel quite foolish. She says she’d need a family tree And three good lamps to tell us apart. I ought to leave. I ought to flee. She’s got my heart. [Chorus — Bigger harmonies, louder tavern stomp] Oh, I’ve got terrible taste in orcs! I’ve lost my wits, my pride, my thoughts! She calls me “pet,” she calls me “small,” She lifts me up to see over a wall! She’s rude, she’s crude, she’s twice my size, She’s got the manners of a swine! But may the bards sing what they will— I’d climb that green and gruff great hill! Oh, I’ve got terrible taste in orcs! My heart has bolted from the shock! I’m doomed, besotted, quite unwell— And I adore this savage belle! [Verse 3 — Lower, conspiratorial baritenor, still fully sung] There’s something strange about the way She orders me to fetch things, The way she calls me “good little elf” And ties my boots with red strings and bells. I may have some peculiar tastes— A thought I shan’t examine. A faint inclination, best left alone, A door I shan’t go slamming. I shall not pry beneath that thought, Nor ask what makes it tick. I’m perfectly content to say Her insults do the trick. For I am cultured, wise, refined, With centuries of elven grace— Yet one rough grin from that green brute And I forget my place. [Bridge — Tender lute, warm low vocal; the singer admits his feelings] She cannot quote a single bard, She thinks fine wine is vinegar, She uses my old cloak as padding When she repairs her furniture. She has no patience for my speeches, No reverence for my art. She calls my finest swordwork “cute”— And then let's loose a little fart. ...but when the night grows cold and long, She wraps me in her battered coat. She grumbles that I’m far too thin And feeds me from her plate. She never reads the words I’d write, Or speaks in pretty rhyme— She simply puts me by the fire And stays there by my side. [Final Chorus — Joyous, rowdy, full ensemble] Oh, I’ve got terrible taste in orcs! I’ve lost my wits, my pride, my thoughts! She calls me “pet,” she calls me “small,” But I’m the one who’s caught her fall! She’s rude, she’s crude, she’s twice my size, With thunder in her laugh and molting lava in her eyes! Let every elf in every hall Declare my judgment has taken a fall— Oh, I’ve got terrible taste in orcs! My heart has bolted from the shock! She’s barbaric, brash, uncouth, And somehow she’s my only truth! [Outro — Fiddle dances around the melody; the singer stays in tune, fully sung] She calls me “twig.” I call her “dear.” She says, “Speak up. I cannot hear.” She lifts me high above the crowd. I love her. I’ll say it loud. My terrible taste in orcs!
