There was and old king, on a high throne.
His white beard lay, on knees of bone.
In secret treasury, in the dark ground.
Its strong doors, were iron bound.
The swords of his thanes were, full whit rust.
His glory fallen, his rule unjust.
His halls hollow, and his towers cold.
But thing he was, of elvish gold.
He heard not the horns, in the mountain pass.
He smelt not the blood, on the trodden grass.
But his halls were burned, and his kingdom lost.
In a freezing pit, his bones were tossed.
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