Lying out in the summer sun,
Are the bones of Nethermost,
Shaped like a green world,
Of virgin forest and The Smog.
My task, is to shelve the burnt books;
No bridge remains to ‘then.’
My task is to sort into piles,
The gold coins and flaming jewels.
My neighbor comes to greet me now,
The Shire-folk with their long shadows,
Dispersed, the dwarves of stonework;
But they are wholly men, unknown.
And I must take him by the throat,
Again, and open those frightful teeth.
To see his innards from outside,
Not to quarrel with him again.
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