Grand Order of the Lost Mathom

Far north in the Shire, where the winters are dire
Where the breeze chills you right to the bone
Where the young dress up warm to conform with the norm
And the gaffers all mutter and moan
There’s a need to feel tender and toasty
There’s a need for that warm soothing glow
So they boil and they brew, all the four seasons through
Always the hard liquor flow

He is Lotho Sackville-Baggins
He’s a rotter through and through
His face looks like a pimple
And he smells just like a shrew

His friends are a band of ruffians
They wear clubs and ferocious scowls
Even worse is his ma Lobelia
Her umbrella will make you howl

I walked along the riverbank when something caught me eye,
A little bobbing wooden boat beneath the sunlit sky,
Now boats are tricky things, of course, but deep inside I knew,
My inner Took could not resist the call of waters blue.