The Nine are Abroad
by Sauron Gorthaur
Galloping, galloping, on steeds black and fine.
Galloping, galloping, they are the Nine.
They are in the great tales of great elvish lore.
They are Dark. They are Dread. And they come from Mordor.
The one who impedes them is naught but a fool.
Beware them and fear them, the Nine Nazgûl.
Those who halt them never see dawn.
They are great. They are fierce, the slaves of Sauron.
When their cries rend the air in the darkest night hour
The bravest of brave will tremble and cower.
They wield great and terrible blades.
All that they touch withers and fades.
Searching and looking, they seek the One Ring.
It calls to them always, this terrible thing.
Nine rings on nine fingers, a terrible fate.
They found out afterwards. They found out too late.
Beware them, O Men, and think on their tale.
Do not fall as they fell. Do not fail as they failed.
They hate all things good. They hate flames and fire.
Recently they've been seen in the land called the Shire.
The Ring! The Ring! It long they have sought.
Beware! Beware! The Nine are abroad!