Ian Hall (Author)

The following poem is taken from the Horror short story;The Murder of Tom Bombadil, available in Amazon. Along with Price of a Portrait they make a macabre duet of Horror.
I hope you enjoy...
(Make the sound of a mad-man's laughter in your head, then let it slowly fade away...)

The Murder of Tom Bombadil

Young Tom sits on the grass alone,

Licking the melt from the ice cream cone.

For almost an hour, Tom had sucked it sour,

With hair as dark as a raven, shaven, craven.

For an hour he glowered as the ladies cowered,

With hair as dark as a raven.

A man, Tom walks up the church’s aisle

With a love kept chaste in a secret vial

For almost a year, we had kept it pure;

Frustration as deep as an ocean, lotion, motion.

For three hundred days, in a thousand ways

Frustration as deep as an ocean

But now Tom sits in his room alone

And watches and worries a withered crone

For many a year he had taken the sneer

And his mind began to shrivel, snivel, evil.

Tom left her a-lying in a pool of red.

And his mind began to shrivel.

Old Tom sits in his padded cell

And softly and surely, his worries quell

When the Sandman comes, he couldn’t tell

Because sleep was hard to come by, numb-by, numb-bye

But the blood still runs in the corpse’s thumbs

And sleep was hard to come by.

The old crone lies on her rug of pink

And her flesh and bones decay and stink

Fingers don’t twitch, and eyes don’t blink

For her dead body lies in the bedroom, redroom, deadroom.

Tom Bombadil’s fingers are covered in blood

And the crone’s a-lyin’ in the bedroom.

Up jumped Tom, with his big boots on

And he says to Detectives, “What is yon?

For it looks like a corpse of a wife of sorts

That turned a good man to a killer, spiller, thriller.

That tortured and pestered, while inside he festered,

And turned a good man to a killer”

Old Tom sits in the room and waits,

For the imps or the angels to open the gates,

For ten long years, he’d shed his tears,

And awaited the clash of the gavel, ravel, evil.

For ten long years, he’d shed his tears,

And awaited the clash of the gavel

So Tom, he sits in the room alone

Clutching and scratching the telephone

For ten long years he awaits the crone;

The body he pushed into the future, creature, butcher.

He sits and mumbles and waits alone

For the body he pushed into the future.

http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Bombadil-Portrait-Horror-Stories-ebook/dp/B0068PGLWW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385134994&sr=8-1&keywords=bombadil+murder