Ode to The Shire.

Imladris has her leafy glades,
And Lórien her mallorns tall,
And Minas Tirith silver blades;
The Riddermark, her Golden Hall...
But Hobbiton has Dragons Green
And drunken dancing on the tables,
And drunken singing (some not clean,
Although not mentioned in the fables).

Oh, Mirkwood has her nancing elves,
And all of Moria’s dwarves are dead;
The Bombadils keep to themselves;
The pretty Mearas tend to shed...
But we’ve Longbottom by the plot;
The Southern Star quite nicely burns--
Do buy some Toby (mind, we’ve got
A policy of no returns).

Now, Isengard is just too damp,
And Saruman a little miffed;
Gwaihir requires an air-mail stamp,
So do not ask him for a lift;
But stay and feast on victuals sweet,
As proper Hobbits always should:
Our Second Breakfast can’t be beat
(Although the Fourth is pretty good).

Eh, Bree is full of shady types;
Osgiliath is naught but rubble,
And Weathertop’s too drear for pipes,
While Amon Hen just asks for trouble.
The Barrows leave me quite distraught,
The Marshes Dead are rather tricky.
The folks from Mordor stare a lot,
And Cirith Ungol’s much too sticky.

Caradhras is a wee bit chill,
I hear the Deeping-Wall is see-through;
All Morgul’s residents are shrill,
And Henneth Annûn smells like mildew.
So Hobbiton it is for me!
Its streams and homes are ever dear;
And should you ask, I’ll say to thee,
Straight-faced, "Er...what? There’s no Ring here!"

Ode to The Shire.

Imladris has her leafy glades,
And Lórien her mallorns tall,
And Minas Tirith silver blades;
The Riddermark, her Golden Hall...
But Hobbiton has Dragons Green
And drunken dancing on the tables,
And drunken singing (some not clean,
Although not mentioned in the fables).

Oh, Mirkwood has her nancing elves,
And all of Moria’s dwarves are dead;
The Bombadils keep to themselves;
The pretty Mearas tend to shed...
But we’ve Longbottom by the plot;
The Southern Star quite nicely burns--
Do buy some Toby (mind, we’ve got
A policy of no returns).

Now, Isengard is just too damp,
And Saruman a little miffed;
Gwaihir requires an air-mail stamp,
So do not ask him for a lift;
But stay and feast on victuals sweet,
As proper Hobbits always should:
Our Second Breakfast can’t be beat
(Although the Fourth is pretty good).

Eh, Bree is full of shady types;
Osgiliath is naught but rubble,
And Weathertop’s too drear for pipes,
While Amon Hen just asks for trouble.
The Barrows leave me quite distraught,
The Marshes Dead are rather tricky.
The folks from Mordor stare a lot,
And Cirith Ungol’s much too sticky.

Caradhras is a wee bit chill,
I hear the Deeping-Wall is see-through;
All Morgul’s residents are shrill,
And Henneth Annûn smells like mildew.
So Hobbiton it is for me!
Its streams and homes are ever dear;
And should you ask, I’ll say to thee,
Straight-faced, "Er...what? There’s no Ring here!"