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Portent fills the prose, of the Silmarillion,
moonshine sung in verse, makes a merry Zillian...

Wraiths ware ye the risk, o' great victories Pyrrhic
crushing all crushes, life's lil' pleasures lyric:

Say your doom doth pass, say comes to set a spell
there will come the days, astride your creatures fell
when you'll search afar, standing in the stirrups,
everywhere be ash, nowhere you'll find syrup...

Then your Melkor Hailed, will come to loathe his hordes
no more Elves to blame, you'll see him Really Bored
starting with Maiar, he'll pull off Balrogs' wings
poke ol' Sauron's eye... then undo Undead things...