The orcs of Mordor on guard duty,
Landscape barren, flat and sooty.
Staring at the clouds will get a bit dull,
It helps to kick around a hobbit-y skull.
Doesn’t last long, they always break,
Back to the lukewarm boredom lake.
Suddenly a rhythmic tintinnabulation,
Causes a minor interestation.
A glance and a minor sniff of the snout:
Angmar’s again on his jogging route.
This Nazgul likes to stay in shape,
Armor clinking under his cape.
Droplets of sweat fly from under the cowl,
Winded he lets out a terrifying howl.
Tells the orcs to climb on his back for more weight,
Does some squats and a pushup or eight.
He sits all day on his frightful fell beast,
No proper movement for eight hours at least.
Even the back of a ghost gets sore,
No exercise when there’s no evil war.
Soon the flying beast can’t bear your mass,
Walking around ain’t got much class.
The choice is that or a jog every day,
Sauron’s idea and he gets his way.