O Little Town of Barad-dûr
O little town of Barad-dûr, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep relentless reek keeps watch the Lidless Eye:
And in thy dark streets hangeth the everlasting gloom
Of smoke and smog and foul black fog that belcheth from Mount Doom.
Sauron's mood is rancid; and, gathered in the air
While mortals sleep, the Nazgûl keep their watch of bleak despair.
Neglect of things diminutive has fouled his cunning plan
For Mordor's king has lost his ring, and Gollum up and ran.
How silently, how slinkily, the hobbitses creep through!
And meanwhile back in Rohan stupid Sharkey missed his cue.
Then a hero bursts from nowhere with a name that makes him quake,
With reforged swords and swarming hordes of dead dudes in his wake.
O mighty Lord of Barad-dûr, though fearsome be your power
Pack up your bags and leave your crags, and mortgage off your tower!
For changeful winds are whisp'ring o'er your mountains high and drear
Beware! They'll sing your downfall ere the turning of the year.
***
Draft 1. It needs sugarplums.
Un flambeau, ma bonne sentinelle!
Un flambeau, ma bonne sentinelle,
Un flambeau, courons au tombeau!
C'est la fin, bonne gens du château,
Je suis fou, mon fils appelle,
Ah! ah! que ma pierre est belle,
Ah! ah! ah! que les flammes sont chaudes!
and my very bad translation:
Bring a torch, my good sentinel! oh,
Bring a torch, to the sepulchre run!
The end is nigh, good folk of the tower;
I've run mad, my son is calling:
Ah! ah! Beautiful is my bauble!
Ah! ah! Cook us all 'til we're done!
***
A/N: Thank you, Dwim, for polishing my rusty French.