This is quite a lie,
so unfurl the flesh-
don’t leave me blind,
for truth is just a bane so bright
I must see for dark or light
and wear the shirt of iron-hair
out on the moors of Shire fair
and in that barren land I’ll bloom,
or bury deep in stony tombs.
Yes, I do speak this clean of fear,
but cruel as children you may jeer
at my stilled and petty pace
for without soon-change I shall disgrace
myself and all that grasps my trust
as I bustle through my hollow fuss.
No aid then must be handed out,
but a frightly blow or vicious clout.
