Tolkein's Vogon Poetry

I've been trying to read Fellowship of the Ring again.

I read the series 35 years ago, and it was like slogging through Boston after the great molasses flood. Just agonizing.

Tolkein couldn't write poetry if a gun was held to his head and he was under threat of death to write a decent poem. And every chapter has one, two, or more of his awful fucking Vogon poetry.

I'll be just getting into the rhythm of the story when fucking JRR decides it's time to pull out his Prostetinic Vogon Jeltz mask and begin:

"Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!

Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.

Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,

Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,

There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,

Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.

Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing

Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?

Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o!

Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!

Poor old Willow-man, you tuck your roots away!

Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.

Tom's going home again water-lilies bringing.

Hey! Come derry dol! Can you hear me singing?"

Has no more literary merit than:

"Oh freddled gruntbuggly, 

Thy micturitions are to me,

As plurdled gabbleblotchits,

On a lurgid bee,

That mordiously hath blurted out,

Its earted jurtles,

Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer. [drowned out by moaning and screaming]

Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,

Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,

And living glupules frart and slipulate,

Like jowling meated liverslime,

Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turling dromes,

And hooptiously drangle me,

With crinkly bindlewurdles,

Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,

See if I don't.”

Actually Vogons are better poets.

I'm sorry, LOTR fans, I really tried.

I will stick with the beautifully poetry free movies.