My words enchain the feebled mind
Of Théoden. Each day I find
Dark counsels to promote despair.
Creeping old age makes the King fare
Much worse. Doting, decrepit fool!
I hold the power. He’s a tool
I wield to rule behind the throne.
My final reward will atone
For all the insults thrown at me
By these boors of the Mark, that be
Mine enemies. They Wormtongue name
Me, son of Galmód. Much I blame
This hard task entrusted to me
By Saruman. Yet, we shall see!
To rule the Mark – this prize I hope
Devoutly for. Well, I can cope
With all the curses cast my way
By Rohirrim. For, as my sway
Increases over weakling wills
Whatever I want – my King fulfills!
I am chief counsellor, his right hand.
He but agrees to my command!
I’m at the acme of my rise:
Soon shall I cast off this disguise
Of ‘counsellor’: in my own right
I’ll reign. My goal is within sight!
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