I Hate You, Goldberry (or Luthien's Teen-aged Angsty Poetry Phase)
What's this about golden-haired nymphs of the deep?
Why cannot all Children just celebrate me?
It's not as if I were not perfectly formed
With flowers and tresses and such rot adorned.
I'm plenty for songs, so back off, you 'ho
Whilst through the dark forest a'singing I go.
Your mother is water? Well mine is a god.
Take that, River-daughter; go swallow a cod.
(I heard that about you, the swallowing part,
When I chucked you right out of poor Daeron's heart.)
So you grant sweetest dreams to guests and the like?
Try sorcelling Sauron, try stealing starlight!
You soak your feet nightly in flower-filled bowls,
But I sang until Eru restored Beren's soul.
My song is of magic, and so are my tresses,
Which strikes me as better by far than your dresses.
Green? I mean, really, who wears it nowadays?
And the odes to your pretty gold hair? A phase
I've heard you compared to willows and reeds,
But as far as I know, those are just weeds.
I'm smart! I'm sexy, and look, I can dance!
Plus, I'd never canoodle a doof in orange pants.
Now some may mistake me and so think me bitchy
(they call your feet swift; I say you are are twitchy),
But listen, my uncle is Manwe, so there.
Try pulling a Lord of the West from your hair!
And finally ponder on this, you nymphette:
My love's a mite taller and suaver, I bet.
He's burlier, too, and bi-monthly takes showers,
Which one-ups your leprawn, despite all those flowers.
So go back to the shoreline and sit in the rushes
And leave off enchanting my noble elf crushes.
I'm sick of the ballads all calling you queen,
I'm sick of comparisons: that stuff is mean!
I'm sick of hearing your name on a sigh.
I hate you, Goldberry. Too bad you can't die.
AN: Thank you so much, elea, for the excellent beta!
And lest the canonistas squirm...
- By "Children," of course I mean "Children of lluvatar."
- No, it's never stated explicitly that Tom Bombadil's trousers were orange. I took a liberty.
- And no, Silmarils aren't technically starlight, but close enough.
Also, this poem is in rhyming couplets, yo: just like the Lay of Leithian!