The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

The shadows where the Mewlips dwell

Are dark and wet as ink,

And slow and softly rings their bell,

As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare

To knock upon their door,

While down the grinning gargoyles stare

And noisome waters pour.

Beside the rotting river-strand

The drooping willows weep,

And gloomily the gorcrows stand

Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,

In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,

By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,

Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit

Are deep and dank and cold

With single sickly candle lit;

And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;

Their feet upon the floor

Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,

As they sidle to the door.

They peep out slyly; through a crack

Their feeling fingers creep,

And when they've finished, in a sack

Your bones they lake to keep.

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road.

Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,

And through the wood of hanging trees and the gallows-weed,

You go to find the Mewlips — and the Mewlips feed.