A song by Kester Proudfoot, inspired by his and his friends’ own unhappy run-in with goblins in the Misty Mountains, far from Greenfields.
Five weedy old goblins from mountain-cave cold
Heard of a fine hobbit come far from his hole
“We’ll feast on his fat,” said the goblin-chief bold,
Forgetting how Golfimbul’s goblin-head rolled.
In Greenfields a goblin named Golfimbul came
To fill up his larder and win goblin fame,
But Golfimbul’s goblins fled crying in shame
When a hobbit named Took with a stout club took aim!
Old Bandobras Took was a hobbit renowned
For towering over all hobbits around.
His height every tailor’s yardstick would confound:
A yard and a half from his toes to his crown!
This leader of Tooks met Golfimbul one morn.
No sword did he bear, with but cudgel adorned.
But a swing and a thump and a goblin was shorn —
And Golfimbul without his head was forlorn.
Five goblins from chilly caves, bellies all ringing,
Lay waiting in muck and then all came up springing —
But a hobbit-lad’s knife and thrown rock all a-stinging
Left five goblins dead and one fine hobbit singing!