Gandalf cast the ring into hot fire.
Frodo yells out, "what in the Shire?"
"Wait" wizard says, picking up the tong.
Drops the golden circle onto Frodo's palm.
Shivering in fear, of it's being hot,
With a sense of dread, knows it is not.
"How can this be", he asks, amazed,
At letters in some foreign script, gazed.
It is language of Mordor, dark as night,
I will not speak it here, in hobbit's firelight.
Enough to say tis' evil, beyond all we know,
Keep it safe and secret, away I go.
Seeking the truth of this thing in history,
Gondor's halls of learning will solve the mystery.
Wait no longer than September to leave,
Have I not returned, I will see you in Bree.
Trust not to strangers, name of 'Baggins', do not use,
Take a friend with you, be careful who you choose.
In the village of Bree there is a small inn,
Called 'The Prancing Pony', we shall meet again.
Old Barliman, the innkeeper, always in a hurry,
A good friend of mine, do not worry.
Wizard left on his journey, where unknown,
Upon Orthanc's high tower, he was thrown.
Leaving four small hobbits, wondering in alarm,
Failing in his promise, to keep them from harm!