He became this, as too may I,
Too wrecked to live,
Too cursed to die,
The ring he took,
His friend forsake,
A shivering fool for his mistake.
Sam can’t pity him, he sees him as he lies,
The skin and bones and killing hands,
Thoes hollow, shrunken eyes,
But I see poor poor Smeagol,
The one who evil took,
The one who fears the sun and moon and at the stars can’t look.
And as I bear this burden, every day it grows,
I feel the pain and tourture
That this cruel creature knows,
Living every self same day, under brooding sky,
Living every day in pain, willing us to die.