This is just to say: Balrog poetry

This is a Glimmerglass minotaur by Clive Hicks-Jenkins.
It is not a Balrog.
'Twill serve.

What I learn from spammers: I, my friends, am evidently amazing, awesome, full of life and color. Ahem. And surely I will visit their amazing, awesome, full-of-life-and-color websites out of sheer vibrant love of their worldwide love for me. And then I will write about their for-sale products in glorious, also-vibrant words on my website and use these products at The Palace at 2:00 a.m., perhaps with seductive pictures that will make you tumble over one another, hurrying to buy.

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 eaten
the spammers
that were in
the Gulf

and which
you were probably
saving
for a bītan

Forgive us
they were delicious
so sweet
and so blōdig

Balrogs are very derivative in their poetry. Perhaps it is remarkable that they write poetry at all. Not many people know this. Now you do.