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"What's it going to be then, eh?"
There was me, that is Frodo, and my three droogs, that is Merry, Pippin,
and Sam, Sam being really dim, and we sat in the Prancing Pony making up our
rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. The Prancing Pony was a brewpub, and you
may, O my brothers, have forgotten what these mestos
were like, the age drawing to an end and everyone very
quick to forget, balladeers not being heard much neither...
***
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
I take it up now, and this is the real weepy and like
tragic part of the story beginning, my brothers and
only friends, in Mordor. You will have little desire
to slooshy all the cally and horrible raskazz of the
shock that sent Gimli beating his bruised and krovvy
rookers against unfair like Bog in the Grey Havens,
and Legolas squaring his rot for owwwww owwwww owwwww
in his indignant grief at the Ringbearer and only son
of the Shire like letting everybody down real horrorshow...
***
"hat's it going to be then, eh?"
That, my brothers, was me asking myself the next moorning,
standing outside the cracks of Mount Doom, in my platties
of Mithril of two years back in the grey light of dawn,
with a malenky bit of a bag with my Sting in and a bit
of cutter taken from the vonny Orcs to like start me
off in my new life.
The rest of the day before had been very tiring, what
with having my finger bitten of by Gollum and the One
Ring being cast into the fires and me folding up in
the face of ultra-violence and all that embarrassing
cal...
***
But where I itty now, O my brothers, is all on my oddy
knocky, where you cannot go. Tomorrow is all like sweet
flowers and the turning vonny earth and all the stars
and the old Luna up there and your old droog Frodo all
on the road going ever onandonandon. And all that cal...