Legends that linger in traces of thought Tell of the crowns that were wickedly made. One for the Witch-king of Angmar was wrought, Eight for the lesser wraiths, shrouded in shade, Six for the orc-lords whose fealty was bought, Four for the humans whose hopes were betrayed, Crafted by the power of the Lidless Eye In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie. Legends recall how the Dark Lord once fell, Shorn of his might when the One Ring was broken. Mordor has faded but all is not well— Kindled from fables a new fear has woken. Bowser has risen like Smaug in a shell, Gathering relics of power unspoken. Darkly shine the crowns beneath the misty hills, As the crown of Morgoth shone with Silmarils. Be strong, all you peoples, and do not despair, You plumbers and hobbits and fungi that speak, For he who fights turtles is Aragorn's heir, With power to fix Middle-Earth's greatest leak. The Lord of the Shellmets awaits in his lair, With relics the mighty are tempted to seek. Heroes shall destroy the crowns of evil kings, As their ancestors unmade the ruling Rings.