I look and I ponder,
in the shadows I wonder

Who? I know not,
for he is ‘Outsider’
this Man of the Dark
a Ranger called Strider.

Muddy boots of grey
a great cloak of brown
he sat cornered, alone,
neither smiled nor frowned.
Puffing at a pipe,
his head in smoke crowned.

No friends had he,
or so it seemed to me.

He looked forsaken indeed
as a recluse spider
this Man in the corner,
a Ranger called Strider.

Steadily he drew
at his pipe of wood
and looked on vigilantly
as only a Ranger could.
Thinking I caught his eye
I waved, but ’twas no good.

But of course, didn’t I know?
I waved only for show.

I do not wish to become
familiar with an Outsider
the gloomy Man of the Dark
this Ranger called Strider.

We do not understand
just why he decides
to wait in the shadows
in loneliness abide,
and never show pain
from being cast aside

But he will refuse
to ponder our silly news

If and when he joins in
I’ll trade ale for cider
I and my friends laugh
at the Ranger called Strider

Little do I know what
his opinion is of me
as I laugh and carry on
like my brain is a pea.
He cares not to make friends
with my companions and me.

His mind’s on things greater
than my odd little caper.

Smiling roguishly he knows
his noble mind is higher
lost heir to a throne
this Ranger called Strider.