So today I decided to organise a particular drawer that had been bugging me for a while.
It took a lot of time to try and pull open, it being wedged and stuck due to the cluttered contents inside. It took even more time to sift through all the papers and faded scraps of notes I couldn’t remember ever having read or, let alone, written.
But as I removed pile after pile of the contents, and the drawer was finally able to open fully, I discovered a piece of paper on which I had scribbled some verses.
I looked closer and there was the easily-mistakable outline drawing of a “dragon” and the words Middle-earth written under it.
It’s a pity that there was no date on it, but it must easily be over a decade old; written most probably during one of my least motivating lessons at school.
I was less struck by the non-existent verse construction of my little poem than the rather wonderful realisation of reading a piece of my own work as I attempted to demonstrate my admiration towards Tolkien and his story at an early age.
“Little poem” is a bit misleading however. And before I give you the impression of some Middle-earth lay running hundreds of verses, I present to you (somewhat embarrassingly) the poem (along with a picture to prove its existence).
The Hobbit – a poem
Not a famous hobbit he was,
Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.
Not interested in adventures of any cause,
or aiming at something higher.
He lived peacefully under the Hill,
at Bag End as it was called.
Living comfortably away from winter’s chill.
Until the day came,
when Gandalf passed by.
Renowned wizard for mystery and fame,
to Bilbo’s house he stopped …
Having shared this dreadful piece of writing, it’s now time for me to retire and hide away in a dark corner…