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.