Precious Gollum
How very cruel a fate begot
One hobbit long ago,
For that a ring would claim his life
He surely did not know.
As soon as he laid eyes upon
The glist'ning band of gold,
He turned with malice to his friend,
And thus his soul was sold.
The grave descent of Sméogol
Began on that sad day.
Trading innocence for blood,
He bid conscience away.
He stole his treasure for himself
And hid it in the deep.
Within the mountains' labyrinth
He and his Precious would sleep.
The years of murky darkness spent
With his Precious alone
Would wrench him into twisted form,
Pump ash into his bone.
Clawing, gnarled fingers and
A spit of stringy hair,
Plus shrunken, hungered body;
A mind in constant tear.
He worshipped his Precious until
A burglar came to call,
Whence blackened madness broke within
And fate spelt out his fall.
The tortured soul, bereft of life
But not yet blessed to die,
Would drag his body far and hard
To hush his craving's cry.
So lingered Gollum's being,
Ever haunted by this thing.
And now his eyes are drained of light
From thirsting for the ring.