Whose rings these are, I think I know.
They've all come back to Mordor, though,
Except the Elvish Three—and Mine,
Whose whereabouts I'd like to know!
My flunkies I must reassign
From wonted quotas of rapine
To hunt for bumpkins from the “Shire”
While I, back home, grow saturnine.
Foes slink to Gondor and conspire
As if they didn't fear my ire!
I'll extirpate their sad cabal
In Udûn, and the cracks of fire.
These rings are lovely in my thrall:
One more will be the wherewithal
To rule and bring and find them all
And in the darkness bind them all.