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Old 05-01-2021, 10:09 PM   #9
Morthoron
Curmudgeonly Wordwraith
 
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Join Date: Jun 2007
Location: Ensconced in curmudgeonly pursuits
Posts: 2,528
Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.Morthoron is a guest of Galadriel in Lothlórien.
The Dark Elf, in a fey mood as ever, shuddered as he entered and beheld the garish throng; but he shook off the grim foreboding of having to lounge with the overly cheery Hobbits for yet another anniversary, and decided for his own sanity that he must keep his mind occupied with something other than halfling merry-making. Thus, from a satin sack he produced a wondrous lute with a black lebethron fret board and bridge, and a body of fine-grained ancient willow (which he had gotten after hacking down a particularly obnoxious tree along the Withywindle River a few years' previous).

Without further ado, the Dark Elf plucked the strings, and announced: "Here is a song from a famous minstrel of the North Country, Bard Dylan. I am certain he will not mind that I have altered his lyrics for this august occasion -- as I am equally certain he does not slum about in this neighborhood." He then began to sing....

Come gather ‘round Downers wherever you roam
And admit you got old like a troll turned to stone
And accept it that soon you’ll have creaks in your bones
Like a Barrow Wight creepily aging
Not immortal like elves, you’ll soon be called home
For the Downs they are a-changing.

Come role-playing Werewolves throughout the land
You died elventy times and you’ll soon die again
Cos’ the villagers with pitchforks just don’t understand
The game on the forum you’re playing
Will soon wake the zombies and wreck all your plans
For the Downs they are a-changing.

You’ve carefully posted on each single thread
You’ve ranted and raved and gone off of your head
And shot like a cannon when canon is read
Out of order from Tolkien’s arranging
“It’s fan-fic!” you cry with your face turning red
For the Downs they are a-changing.

Happy Birthday! you type (because we can’t hear you sing)
As silent as Gollum underground with his Ring
But the sentiment still applies, and that’s the thing
No matter how far off-key you are ranging
Because you mean it as surely as Balrogs have wings
That the Downs they are a-changing.
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And your little sister's immaculate virginity wings away on the bony shoulders of a young horse named George who stole surreptitiously into her geography revision.
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