Poem - A hole in one

But when our home is under threat,

And enemies approach;

Force with force will ay be met,

Before our lands you touch.

We are a calm and paisible folk,

Fond of ales and food;

Our lives are happy: oft we joke;

We’re almost never rude.

Yet push a spear into our face,

And you will raise our ire.

We will not shrink from fight or chase;

And so meet fire with fire.

We are not proud or boastful, we,

For heroics and such stuff’;

Of drink and vittles, you can see,

We always have enough.

But threaten us with force and war,

And we shall take our stand;

We’ll rally to the cause; no more

Will invaders take our lands.

And so it was in times gone by;

When by invasion met,

We looked the Goblins in the eye,

Uncowered by the threat.

Long we fought upon these fields,

With pitchfork, bow and arrow;

The Goblins armed with spears and shields

Would scare you to the marrow.

But we stood firm and never flinched,

Sure of our position;

As the orcish forces forward inched,

We stood in opposition.

Oh! Bandobras, Oh Bandobras,

To you our freedom’s owed;

For when the day was almost lost,

Your strength and courage showed. 

Fearing naught, you waded in,

And faced Golfinbul here;

You shouted o’er the battle’s din,

‘Hobbits, to my rear!’

The Hobbit ranks fell back behind,

And their positions took.

When Bandobras stomped on the ground,

The whole of the Greenfields shook.

The goblins sneered, Golfimbul mocked,

As Bandobras stood tall;

The orcish troops toward you flocked,

But you ignored them all.

Then, ‘Charge!’ you yelled and all ran forth

Toward the Goblin-horde;

At the head of the Goblins, to the north,

Golfimbul raised his sword.

But Bandobras, you showed your might;

Your club swung over your head,

Felling orc-foes, left and right,

Leaving them dying or dead.

The cowardly orc-chief tried to run;

But he would not keep his head.

A mighty swipe of your club: It was done!

Golfimbul lay there dead!

The Goblins turned tail and tried to escape,

But the Hobbit bows stopped their flight;

And Golfimbul’s head, sundered from nape,

Flew upwards and out of sight.

A hundred yards from where its owner lay dead,

Was a burrow under a hill;

And t’was there in the hole they found his head,

The first ‘hole in one’, if you will!

This poem was made for, and first read by it's author on, Bullroarer Took Day 2018