Canines from Goblins and fishbones on rockses,
Picking my way out of Mordor’s jail lockses,
Fish that are wriggling and fresh from the spring,
They don’t compare to my favourite ring.

Dark-coloured blood-stains and slippery rock-shells,
Elves quickly ringing the “Prisoner Escape” bells,
Killing a bat and then keeping its wing,
They don’t compare to my favourite ring.

Nights that are moonless and days that are sunless,
Killing an Orc and then leaving it lungless,
Getting away from that nasty old Sting,
They don’t compare to my favourite ring.

When the warg bites, when Shelob stings,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favourite ring,
And then I don’t feel so bad!