My precious, my precious,
the little hobbit will refresh us.
He comes to me,
Wishing to leave the caves free.

My precious plays a game of riddles,
Baggins’ breath is just like whistles.
His face shows his vain and grief,
But his quick agreement is brief.

If he experiences an ordeal,
Then my precious will get his meal.
But for sure I will win,
just waiting for my meal to begin.

Riddle after riddle,
I start to fiddle.
All correct he gets,
My meal gets farther away and I start to fret.

I fail,
But my precious, I will not bail.
The beautiful ring I have,
But now I start to attack.

Where is it?
Oh no, I worry not just a bit.
He runs he runs,
But he doesn’t know what it can make him become.