STRANGE ATTRACTION
I was a teenage Balrog when I first tried out a whip,
and sliced Hobbits with my sword of stabbing fire;
I could get across a glowing chasm with just one little skip,
and my shade would grow and shrink by my desire.
All the same I often wonder if your love for me is true,
how I seem, and how I truly am perceived.
What is this strange attraction, and how do I look to you?
Tell me now, and please don't let me be deceived.
My cousin Dooley taught me how to crack my whip and glare,
and to snort flames through both my nostrils, and to climb
upwards on the many steps that constitute the Endless Stair,
falling deep and turning into loathsome slime.
But whether I do have a mane I haven't got a clue:
If I lack it, will I yet be well received?
What is this strange attraction, and how do I look to you?
Tell me now, and please don't let me be deceived.
As to form, of man-shape am I, yet of larger growth maybe;
every Orc and Troll gives way when I'm around;
when I walk by them a power and a terror walk with me:
not the rudest Orc would dare to make a sound.
Yet some say that I am wingless, yes, it's claimed by quite a few:
If it's so, would you be sorry or relieved?
What is this strange attraction, and how do I look to you?
Tell me now, and please don't let me be deceived.
The Watcher in the Water has put trespassers to flight,
by the West-gate the pool stretches far and wide;
but when lots of mucky tentacles fill everyone with fright,
are they mine, and should I then feel greater pride?
Do I have a beak and feathers, do I have a greenish hue,
horns and tail and all the other things believed?
What is this strange attraction, and how do I look to you?
Tell me now, and please don't let me be deceived.
Yes, you fill my heart with joy when you tell me that I'm sweet,
and you love me, so you say, for many things;
yet all people stare at me as I'm walking down the street,
keen to ascertain the substance of my wings.
And some say that I have none, and the quarrel makes me blue
as it's plain that they will never be agreed.
What is this strange attraction, and how do I look to you?
Tell me now, and please don't let me be deceived.
I Danced at the Nazgūl's Wedding
I danced at the Nazgūl's wedding,
though my heart could have burst with pain
when I saw them air his bedding,
the sheets that his bride would stain.
I danced though my feet were aching
and smiled though my tears made me blind;
and no one saw I was faking,
that I had left all hope behind.
The wraith that I love is blowing
with lust for an airheaded thing
whose one interest is showing
all people her pretty new ring.
Ah! Hoarse though I am from weeping,
I would tell her, and tell her with joy,
that the ring is no more in his keeping:
it's on loan from his Lord as a ploy.
Tomorrow her tears will be spilling
when back to its master it goes;
but, ring or no, I would be willing
to suck all my dear Nazgūl's toes.
Just look at his black, sexy wrapping,
at his wonderful, merciless eyes!
at the menacing way they are snapping,
on the lookout for Dśnedain spies.
Yes, if Rangers of Gondor came creeping
I could never go home anymore:
they would see that this secretly weeping,
slighted lover is old Denethor.
INTO THE FIELD OF PELENNOR
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Walked the last Balrog.
"Forward, my brave Balrog!
Charge for the Mage!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
ran the last Balrog.
"Forward, my brave Balrog!"
Did he then show dismay?
Not though the Balrog knew
Some one had blundered:
His not to make reply.
His not to reason why,
His but to do and die:
Into the valley of the Death
Ran the last Balrog.
Wizard to the right of him,
Wizard to the left of him,
Wizard in front of him
Hollered and thundered;
Stormed at with flaming staff,
Boldly he strode with laugh,
Into the jaws of Death,
Already chewed in half
Walked the last Balrog.
Pleased with his slippers pink,
Flushed, quite the worse for drink,
Belching out quite a stink,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the wizard-smoke
Right through to Gandalf broke;
Ranger and Rohirrim
Reeled at the the whip-end's stroke.
Scorched black, a golliwog,
Then he limped back, and was
Weary, the last Balrog.
Wizard to right of him,
Wizard to left of him.
Wizard behind him
Hollered and thundered;
Stormed at, by magic cursed,
Feeling this was the worst,
Then all his limbs dispersed,
Chewed by the jaws of Death
Broke by the mouth of Hell
Lay there in pieces small,
Fragmented Balrog.
When can his glory fade?
O the wild charge he made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the fear that passed!
He, of all Balrogs last,
Valiant but stupid!
A FISHING SONG
O fish! that I, poor Sméagol, ever sought,
That I, we, I oft found under the waves!
In truth a fish is joy! And little fishes brought
From slavery and Shelob's labyrinth caves
And the Dead Marshes and their eerie graves
Me out, as I of better fishes thought
Than those in the dank pool where long I dwelt:
Blind roach, and tench, and then perhaps a smelt;
Maybe a perch? Yess, yess, we wants a perch!
Let uss continue now our eager search.
In noisome pools I splashed with feet so flat,
That Gollum oft with shame and outrage moans.
It was no wonder that
The cold hard stones
They broke my bones
While Sauron - so it seemed - was watching like a cat.
I gorged myself on cold and scaly fissh
Thus did I satisfy my highest wissh;
And let my bowels melt what I consumed
And I, we, did not se that we was doomed.
But then the shades were gone without a trace,
And nassty daylight came;
and I was roasted by the Yellow Face,
And hastily removed my haggard frame,
Until once more to mountain-land I came,
An empty land where there was ample space
To gnaw on thoughts that never gave me peace,
To feel an anguish which refused to cease.
There I felt great regret assault me like a flood,
I wept for crime, stained by my kinsman's blood.
And then I met a Baggins! All was turned
Towards itself. It was so plain to see
This was another one by Precious burned!
O what a Master he
Turned out to be!
As I brought him and nassty Sam upstairs, my stomach churned,
I got them in, betrayed them, but they fled
hence - with the aid of Elvish charms, 'tis said.
Once more I met them, by Mount Doom, and there the spell
The Ring had cast on me ensured I fell.
When Tom Bombadil Was the Commander of Pearl Harbor
Old Tom Bombadil was a naval fellow,
navy blue his jacket was, but his heart was yellow,
green was his face when he sailed upon the ocean;
even though his steward tried to cure him with a potion.
He lived on Oahu, quite close to the harbour,
but preferred to spend his time drinking in the arbour.
Down fell the bombs on him. Tom, he fled a-screaming,
praying to Eru that he was only dreaming.
"Ah, so, Bombadil! Look what we have brought you!
We're here behind the door. Now at last we caught you!"
Down to the harbour-side, where a sub was waiting,
the agents of Japan took Tom, constantly berating:
"You won't get loose again. To Tokyo we'll take you.
Poor Tom Bombadil, pale and cold we'll make you!"
Old Tom spent the war in a prison camp,
dreary, cruel, harsh and cold, and in fact so damp,
that he envied Badger-folk and the Barrow-dwellers,
when he wasn't sleeping hard, snoring like a bellows.
Let free at end of war, Tom faced a court martial.
His defending counsel said his guilt was only partial.
"Old Bombadil", he said, "is a stupid lubber,
but do not punish him for being such a flubber.
That would be ungenerous now the war is over;
just free the stupid twerp and put him out to clover."
To this the court agreed and gave Tom a white feather,
opening the window wide to the sunny weather.