Lina

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.

On the ground a golden blanket drifts in lazy waves
The northern breeze a gentle shiver blows
All the crops already harvested with care
The berries have been picked before the snow
A spell of rain should reach us in the evening
So far away the days of summer sun

But still our Shire home
Brings hope of warmth and comfort
And soon the days of winter will be gone

Inside the Mathom-House in Michel Delving
The sight that met me there was underwhelming
What I saw
Made me “haw”
A shelf of dusty worn-out trinkets
Maltreated by a gang of shifty delinquents
I said, “No”
“This simply will not do at all”, I said