Haiku for Hobbit Hash
Oh! Crisp Hobbit Hash
All other tots forgotten
Sing, digest for me.

Sam
I am
Hard
For your
Gam

Gee
Let's flee
To a quiet
Room in
Bree

I'm disappointed that those don't sound more dirty, except for "Hobbit Hole" and somehow "Elven Woodland Pie."

To light Smaug's Fire
Will it take a Hobbit Slam
Or will a Hobbit Hole suffice?
Goddamn I want a milkshake inside of me.

Once on a time in Earth Middle
Were small creatures who fiddle
Drank ales by the pint
But one was invite
By a Wiz to a riddle

With a two foot cutlass
And single mad gash
How travel to pierce
A dragon hide fierce
Cut torch straight to ass.

On with bakers dozen
Of drunken dwarf cousin
To steal all the treasure
And place a suppressor
On that prick dragons oven.

[Translated from the Elvish]

Three Donut Rings for the Voodoo-kings under the sky,
Seven hours in line for the Gravy-lords of Mississppi,
Nine coronaries for Screen Door, doomed to deep fry,
None for the Brunch Lord, that lazy Hippy
On the plates of Portland where the Breakfasts lie.
One Denny's Combo to rule them all, One meal to find them,
One Hobbit themed treat to bring them all and in morning bind them.
On the plates of Portland where the Breakfasts lie.

Hobbits masturbate
With their toes. How did you think
Their feet got hairy?

Hairs, long on big
feet. I wonder
where else hair
grows long.

so little to know about that nomadic lifestyle
or the grey magicians gone white and little men.
a rich history lays way for a circular fellowship
but I lack the wherewithal until I see the menu.

Hobbits are beneath me as is eating at Denny's
Doesn't mean I won't stoop to their level.
In fact I'm on my knees, in preparation of height level convos
and inevitable greasy spoon aftermaths.
Who would like to floss my winning smile?
Warning: writing nauseatingly bad poetry can become Hobbitual.

(Read as slam poetry)
Habitual
On quaaludes
Beastly
Bisexual
Inside me
Torrid
Screw

Hobbit Hole Breakfast
I'll be hungover from drinking
At the Green Dragon

Like the sun over the Shire and the moon over my hammy
That tiny Hobbit man reminds me of my Grammy.
Slurp slurp slurping at his split pea stew
Oh how I wish I could order from the senior menu.

BILBO IN L.A.

All former ring-bearers
are sent there,

greeted by Valinorean
valley girls.

Bilbo's endless days are spent
facing either
unshireline sunlight

or the desolation of smog,

staring at rings in
Rodeo Drive shop windows,

and occasionally there is,
after late-night boozing with
a Denny's waitress,

the lonely mountin'.

BILBO IN L.A.

All former ring-bearers
are sent there,

greeted by Valinorean
valley girls.

Bilbo's endless days are spent
facing either
unshirelike sunlight

or the desolation of smog,

staring at rings in
Rodeo Drive shop windows,

and occasionally there is,
after late-night boozing with
a Denny's waitress,

the lonely mountin'.




(same poem, but fucking typo fixed)

(I hate fucking typos)

OK, you can close comments now.