poetry

You'd better run!
You know that its true
For the monsters that hide
In your wardrobe at night
They are coming for you
Before the night's done!
You'd better run!

Yes, you'd better run!
It's not safe outside too
For the bounders all shout
That trouble's about
And it's all caused by you
They'd stop all your fun
You'd better run!

First you get a big round bowl
Making sure it has no holes
Fill it with a pound of flour
And shake it round a bit

Add in lots of sugar too
Pinch of salt will also do
Add too much, it will go sour
So, just a little nip

Mix in table spoons of spice
Makes it taste so extra nice
Cinnamon and nutmeg too
Be sure to add the best

Drop a lump of butter in
Really, really mix it in
It will make a sticky goo
A really lovely mess!

(This worn piece of parchment is carefully slipped between the pages of the journal)

(These words are in hastily written Quenya)

Nessa

The Dancer, the Deer,

Speed's stinging thrill,

Swirling whirls

And whirling curls

Upon the greening hill.

Oh Nessa the Vala,

Creature of song.

Dancing forever,

Faltering never,

Under the Stars of Aman.

Mallorn

The shifting leaves 

Of the Ever-Tree,

Aerlinn an Elbereth

​(Composed and translated into the Common Tongue by Uilossiel of Imladris)

Oh, I wake in the morning and look out the window
To witness the sun rising up o'er the hills
So slowly it spreads all its rays on the gardens
Whilst bringing to life all the things that laid still

A land that was sleeping in Winter awakens
As gently the meadows around turn to green
The flowers unfurl their delicate petals
And trees become covered in garlands of leaves

- This poem is dedicated to the beauty of the Shire -

And this is the end
Oh yes, it's the end
We reached the last call
No time left to spend
What's all gone before
Can go on no more
Just close up the curtains
And shut tight the door

It's all in the past
We've come to the last
The clock has been ticking
But ticking too fast
The end of the day
No more can we stay
Farewell to the light
The sun's gone away

Now in the corner sits a chair
I wonder who's been sitting there
Who's sat upon that wooden seat
And dangled both thier little feet
Off that wooden chair?

Perhaps it is a chair for tales
Where storytellers do regale
With talk of heroes and of gold
Such fine adventures have been told
On that story chair

Or maybe its for elder folk
Who sit whilst on their pipes they smoke
And grumble much of modern ways
How things were better in their day
Oh that ancient chair!

In Celondim upon the running Lhûn
Dwelled Nendaer the child of the wood
Who spied Celebiel beneath the moon
And awestruck at her silver hair he stood
Her willow form and features fair and good
And thus the heart of Nendaer soon fell
The moment he first saw Celebiel

Tall and proud I' Hosse rides
Cross dark and wild places.
Behind Talfalco on his steed,
His pony has short paces,
For Halfling ponies are quite small,
Their size not built for races.

Lodhreth, he the warrior true,
Bids straight to make their pathing.
Talfalco, lagging, turns aside,
To find a cause for laughing.
And such a foolish choice did cause
What we in aftermath sing.