An attempt at the patterning of Tolkien's poem "Errantry", for Gimli.
The Burly Axegrinder
There was a burly axegrinder,
A taxminder, a warrior
He sought some orcs whose passengers
Were passing for some couriers,
Although they were no carriers,
No ferriers of frippery,
No ring of heavy golden shine
Beholden midst their livery.
The orcs ploughed through topography
No pause to breathe, so tauntingly
They hauled their prey potato-sacked
And cracked their whips most constantly
The hunters three, persistantly
(Consistent in their tracking feat)
A leaf of Lorien they found,
All pounded down in loam and peat.
The dwarf revelled in runabout,
This turnabout of who's pursued.
With friends he tracked, and puffing far
For ruffians whose spoils accrued
His feet pumped on through grassy plains,
Swift passage, leagues of gasping toil
To reclaim both lest handling rough
Should shuffle off their mortal coil.
There came a troop of horseriders
Their course beside the selfsame track
With hoof and spear they hemmed them in
By pennant green they waved them back.
Pressed in and questioned to confess
They jested not, stared merciless
As those who know betrayal's jess
And hood would fail their hawkeyed test.
The dwarf he gave a measured glace
At dancing hoof and sharpened lance
With his companions looking on
He forsook all courtly variance;
To their alarm he challenged them,
And malleable his enmity
By whether they'd free passage trade:
Give Lady's due, or penalty!
Eomer gave an answer swift
A gift of passage through the land
But challenge of the Lady's grace...
Through facing dwarvish axe at hand,
He'd not agree that golden nets
Weren't waiting yet in wooded cove.
Though they'd slaughtered orcs and "child"less
They'd piled the mess on flaming stove.
With a growling overture,
The Dwarf turned back from man and horse
To seek again his halflings' fate
With unabating dwarvish force
And barring any sophistory
In history to find his place down
Underneath his braided beard,
Unfearing grin upon his face.