Thought I’d try a little Dr. Seuss style on this one. Let me know what you think.
Away in the forest and over the hill,
Lies a quiet little town whose name is Bree Mill.
It has mountains and streams, and buildings with beams,
It has people with pipes, and one Hobbit named Scripe.
Scripe, they say, is smaller than most,
His skin tone is pale, as white as a ghost,
But, he is happy and friendly, say his friends who are close,
And he is happiest when seen giving a toast.
He hobbles around the town with a cane,
From an accident he had, where no one was blamed.
He works in confection, makes sweet things galore,
Yet he would rather, you see, be dancing on the floor.
Indeed a dancer, he was, till that ill-fated day,
When a Trolley Bombaster would take it away.
His leg was impaired, yet his spirits were bright,
For now he could TEACH others to dance through the night.
So this is his story, and this is his tale,
The Scripe teaches on, and refuses to fail.
Let this be a lesson to those who are down,
Follow the Scripe, and turn that frown upside down.