He is week, and in the night he cries
He weeps of his old life, and so his hope it dies
And all the pain he thiks of, is not his, but ours
For we are one, the tricksy thing, the slinking, secret powers.
He laughs at my poor tears, as in the night I cry,
He thinks my dreams of sun and flowers should die,
And when he laughs, we weep some more,
Poor smeagol, at death’s door.
He couldn’s live without me, yet with me he is still,
For his murdering hands too obey my will
And he thinks I’m bad, and he think’s I’m mean,
But I know all the things he’s been.
Poor smeagol, he has had no chance
To go away, and gladly dance
And the halls of resting sleep,
For the precious I did take it then.