The Neverending Limerick Story 9
Taken from the ongoing Word Games at the Fellowship of
Middle-earth
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Meanwhile that wayward entwife
Entered a season in her life
In which all things tasted
Like wallpaper pasted,
There'd ne'er be an end to her strife
Until and unless she repented
And gave up her wand'rings demented.
She turned nose to the air
To find Fangorn the Fair,
Hoping its trees could be scented.
Deep from her mem'ry she culled
The scent of her home, tho' dulled
By eons of travel,
She began to unravel
recollections of a draught moss-mulled.
And so with newness of purpose
She determined to follow-through thus:
To pick up her roots,
Forsaking the fruits,
While rehursing a topic to discuss.
For speech among ents was too slow,
She needed to speak so apropos
That her ent-sire would melt
Any anger he felt
And relent to her quid pro quo.
She'd trade him acorn for apple,
Together their problems they'd grapple,
Until they could find
Oneness of mind.
Yet there remained in her plan just one snaggle...
She had not the slightest inkling
At what place under all the stars twinkling
She and her ent-sire
Could ever retire
That wouldn't set brows to wrinkling!
Unaware of the distant ent-wife,
Unaware of her struggles or blights,
From Fangorn departed
Two hobbits light hearted
Looking forward to kingly delights.
For a slab of delights culinary
Will fill them from head to feet hairy
And all points in between
Barely out of their tweens
They feel pantries sans food are quite scary.
Over hill over dale did they travel,
Hoping there with their teeth to unravel
All the candies and taters
(With plenty for laters)-
All the food they ever could have'll!
The plains that they crossed were so green,
Rolling hills soft to walk, barely seen
Could they be in the grass
As so lightly they passed,
Over Rohan towards Gondor they deem'd.
Meanwhile the King's nerves were grating
As his Council took turns bloviating.
For matters of state
He'd no patience, of late,
As for his Hobbit friends he was waiting.
To bloviate is a skill known for those
politicians, or so it goes
But if of substance they speak
my mind would just freak
for hot air is all of their prose.
Hot air! How it blew in the councils,
All the prithees and wherefores and flounce'lls,
The King was far weary
Of talk (boring, dreary),
And longed for a Bouncer to bounce'lls.
Sitting there in his throne upon high,
How he daydreamed of this with a sigh.
If he only could launch
All the ones with a paunch
In the trebuchets that would be fine!
the council though still it did wend,
decided to help Hobbit friends
With nary a "how do you do"
they went through
the plans to succeed in the end.
'Twas Pippin who noticed a melancholy
Cross the face of the king, once jolly.
"I must think of a prank,"
He thought as he drank,
"To roust his spirit from this folly!"
For a King oh so Kingly must need
A table of fine hobbit-feed
Plus a jester a-jesting -
So now we'll be testing
Both humor's and appetite's deeds.
We should start with a pint and a song -
Neither mellow nor either too strong.
Just take a long swig
And dance a short jig -
Let the merriment follow along!
So Pip nudged Merry, and winked,
And afore the king's eye had blinked,
They jumped on the table,
As quick as t'were able,
To offer a toast, mug-clinked:
"Oh we drink a fine toast to our King:
Here's a humble and practical thing -
He does not let his thoughts
Puff up with much rots,
Even though on his head he wears wings.
For our King is a right decent fellow,
With some ale inside he's right mellow,
And after the cider,
He's just plain old Strider,
Old 'Into the Wild', never yellow."
Last updated 3/19/07
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