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Be Hobbit here with soul so dead,
Whom never to himself hath said,
"This is my own, my hearth and Shire."
Who swears to Never touch the ring,
And will not think to take the ring,
And toss it in the Mount of Fire?
If such there breathes, go, slap him down,
And show to him thy deepest frown.
Though small his stature, haired his toes,
To him no second breakfast goes!
Despite hi titles, wealth, and mood,
The wretch, concentered all in food,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And missing the Oscars, shall go down,
To the vile dust from whence he'd grown,
Unwept, Unsequeled, and unknown.