Proceedings of the Angband Poets' Society by kimikocha  

Excerpts from the Poets' Society of Angband magazine, Vol. XXIV: Limerick Edition

Fëanor was an elven-smith,

Such jewels did he make forthwith,

And yet he forgot,

To insure the lot,

His old wealth is now just a myth.

-Grugh, Lieutenant-Commander of Angband's 77nd Legion

*

Yes, I’ve heard of the one they call Gothmog,

A true leader, the greatest of Balrogs,

But he ran afoul,

Of Mairon the dour,

Now his room is infested with bullfrogs.

-Sigluzh, a cook

*

Do you hear what they say about Mairon?

That he says all conclusions are foregone?

Then he found quantum physics,

Uncertainty it inflicts,

Now his sanity, sadly, is bygone.

-Grishnagh, Soldier, 45th Battalion

*

Say… there were a few poets from Angband,

Who thought they’d be witty with longhand,

It’s too bad their limericks

Were such dreadful gimmicks—

                                       Eh, fuck it.

Grishnagh will clean toilets as reprimand.

-Mairon, Lieutenant of Angband