‘We will have peace,’ said Theoden at last thickly and with an effort. ‘Yes, we will have peace, when you and all your works have perished – and the works of your dark master to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men’s hearts. Even if your war on me was just – as it was not – even so, what will you say of your torches in Westfold and the children that lie dead there? When you hang from a gibbet at your window for the sport of your own crows, I will have peace with you and Orthanc.’
But Saruman for a while was beside himself with wrath. ‘Gibbets and crows!’ he hissed, and they shuddered at the hideous change. ‘Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where rigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among the dogs? Too long have they escaped the gibbet themselves. But the noose comes, slow in the drawing, tight and hard in the end. Hang if you will!’ And then to the chagrin of all, he started a solemn dance and song routine.

‘Have you seen the poor Rohirrim crawling in the dirt?
And for all of those Rohirrim life will get much worse,
Always having dirt to play around in.
Have you seen the Royal Horselords in their starched white shirts?
You will find the younger Horsebrats stirring up the dirt,
Always have the dogs to play around with.

In their barns with all their liquor they don’t care what goes on around,
In their eyes there’s something lacking,
What they need’s a darn good whacking.

Everywhere there’s lots of Horselords living Horsie lives,
You can see them out for dinner with their horsey wives,
Clutching swords and spears to EAT THEIR BACON!!!!

‘Very well, punk,’ said Theoden drawing his sword. ‘Today, you die!!’