|This is a Glimmerglass minotaur by Clive Hicks-Jenkins.|
It is not a Balrog.
Unfortunately, I have a little ferrying expedition to Cherry Valley that will prevent me from investigating their fashionable handbags, miracle drugs, magic vacuums, stellar designs, etc. in the next hour. So I will toodle off into the green landscape of raindrops on leaves without a care, singing loudly as I go. And on return, I am determined to be amazing, awesome, full of life and color in a revision (so far, so good.)
But suddenly I realize (ack!) that in my thoughtlessness, I abandoned the spammers to wander in the Gulf of Spam, where they have all been eaten by roaming Balrogs. Again! One of the Balrogs has left me an apology in fiery runes:
We have eatenBalrogs are very derivative in their poetry. Perhaps it is remarkable that they write poetry at all. Not many people know this. Now you do.
that were in
you were probably
for a bītan
they were delicious
and so blōdig