The leaves were dry, the grass was green,
The pole-bean poles stood tall and lean,
And in the hole a light was seen
Of stove where soup was simmering.
Lobelia was cooking there
For to eat her lunch unseen.
And light the hairnet in her hair,
As the fat from broth was skimmering.
There Bingo came from a version old
And lost he wandered under leaves,
Here and there the Author rolled
A line to him, barely wallowing
It appeared between the revised rev-eez
It was a wonder he was still told
At all, his silly name it breathes
Only when rough drafts following.
For Tolkien grew their hairy feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
Like sheep they hastened, bleat, bleat, bleat,
And gulped at foodstuffs glistening.
Through woven words to Hobbithome
She frightly went to Frodo meet,
With Bingo lonely still to groan
In the rough draft Bag End listening.
He heard there oft the flying sound
Of open book and turning leaves,
Of versions swelling all around,
In the mainline story quavering.
But withered stays he, we believes,
Thus Bingo faded with sighing sound,
Whispering fell to breech-ed knees
In the penciled outlines wavering.
He’d sought Lobelia, wandering far
Where paper-leaves were thickly strewn,
She was its goon and not its star -
Her greed, it had him shivering.
Her eyeballs glinted in the moon,
As on a hill-top high and far
She plotted, at her feet were strewn
The silver spoons all quivering.
When Bingo passed, she’d come again,
And her greed stretched her umbrella’s spring,
Like grasping shark, and stomach pain,
And melting candles bubbling.
He saw the fat umbrella spring
About her feet, all filled again
He longed to shake her, like a string
Out on the grass for troubling.
Again she fled, but swift he came.
He called her by her hobbit name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, gangling
His voice laid on her: Bingo came,
And doom fell on Lobelia:
That umbrella rip’d, all glistening.
As Bingo poked into her eyes
Within the shadows of her hair,
The accusing finger none denies
He saw there bubbling, simmering
Lobelia, who curdles fair,
Improper hobbit all cross-wise,
Whipped him with her frizzy hair
Until he knew no glimmering.
Long was the way that fate them bore,
O'er story versions old, they say
‘Twas Frodo had her darken his door,
And threw her outside borrowless.
The Published Works between them lay,
And glad that he was free of her,
Bingo long since passed away
In the Shire singing sorrowless.