It’s really, truly morbid, how my vehicle came to me,
Twas’ the death of a friend of a friend of a friend
Of a friend who was close to thee
He was dead when I got your keys.  
I find that I’m quite infatuated, by your shining, crimson flair  
And your window that squeaks, and your faux leather seats,  
Stained carpets and central air
Who knew trucks could be debonair?  
Shall I name all life’s pains that mean naught in you?
Like that person who says, and then he says, and she says
They all say, and then it is true
So, I drive to find new points of view.
We will thrive on gasoline fumes and the human will
Until the ground is ****** dry and wells shot
Till then, freedom, adventure, and hidden hills
Will be ours, you and I, Bombadil.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                           A Tom Bombadil Day


                         “How bright your garden looks!”

                            -Gandalf, The Lord of the Rings, Book I


Tomato seedlings from the hardware store
Happy little things, six of ‘em to a pack
I sing to them as I drive them home
They seem amused: I am no Tom Bombadil!

I sing to them more nonsense songs
(If no sniffy old Lobelias are listening)
As I gently, gently transfer them
With a pat and a prayer into the earth

And I sing to them; you will understand
For you too have lived in the dear old Shire

Aurelio (near Israel) speaks to me
Of Tom Bombadil and also
Of a light that can't be seen

I listen.

But I do not yet understand what he means.