Although hard to tell from below the spire,
The Eye of Sauron was growing tired.
Years and years of wide open blazing,
All that fixed focused forward gazing
Had left it as dry as a burned out pyre.
Sure, The Eye knew it shouldn’t fall asleep.
In the pit of its iris, buried deep,
It knew the One Ring was inching near.
The greatest thing it longed for and feared
Was approaching fast on bare, hairy feet.
But staying awake is tricky to do
Without hands to prepare a pot of brew.
Although its suspicions were aroused,
The Eye of Sauron succumbed to drowse.
Besides, what harm could a moment’s rest do?