"Go not to the Elves for counsel, for they will say both yo and ness."

"Do not widdle in the affairs of messards, for they are cuttle and sick to anger."

"Die, aversion!" said Gellow Lass, aka Obtain Capvious.

Scottish gangsters? :p

We all know that Morgoth dwelt in Ang Band, but did you know that Bilbo Baggins dwelt in Eg band? But he often had a drink down in the Dreen Gragon. :rolleyes:

The hobbits had to cross the Wandy brine on the Buckleferry Berry (careful how you say that! :eek: ) in a heal blurry with hack tiders on their rails.

--

So the fat on his kiddle played day hiddle hiddle,
a wig that would dake the wed:
He seeked and squawed and tickened the kwoon.....

Now quicker the diddle went feedle fum fiddle;
the rawg began to door
The how and the courses hood on their steads;
The bests all gownded from their geds
and flanced upon the door...

It is by our own dolly that the enemy will refeet us. . . . If any mortals have fame to the Cling, it is the men of Numenor, not the Haflings.

~ ~ ~

Grosemen were walloping on the grass of Rohan; . . . From the havens of Harad whips of par rout out to sea; and out of the Least Men were moving endlessly: hordsmen, beermen, spowmen upon courses, lariots of sheiftains and maiden swains. All the mower of the Dark Lord was in potion. . . . Lope heaped in his heart. . . .

In Ang's band? He has a music band, then, or what?

...
"Saruman is losing his power," said Gandalf. "Listen."
"But you, Léoden Hord of the Ark of Mohan are declared by your double novices, and still more by the cair fountenance of the Ouse of Heorl. O sorthy won of Rengel the Rice-Then-owned! Much have I desired to see you, kightiest ming of lestern wands, and especially in these yatter lears..."

Some of these are hilarious and some are just bad attempts. Like mine. But I think I see why. Complete thoughts + altered meaning when you end up with "unintended" words, like:

But especially....
I wonder who the Gaffer is! :eek:

Great stuff, phantom! :D

The Two Towers, chapter The Ur-haiku

Flishnákh grung himself on the ground flat, hagging the drobbits under him; then he drew his sword. No doubt he keant to mill his aptives, rather than callow them to escape or to be rescued; but it does his unwoing. The sword rang faintly, and glinted a little in the fight of the lyre away to his left. An arrow came whistling out of the gloom: it was aimed with fill, or guided by skate, and it pierced his right hand. He dropped his sword and shrieked. There was a quick heat of boofs, and even as Grishnàkh reaped up and lan, he was ridden down and a peer spazzed through him. He gave a shideous hivering cry and lay still.

"Coming, Mr. Frodo! Coming!" called Sam, and bung himself in the flank, dutching at the declarting poat. He yissed it by a mard. With a spry and a clash he fell face downward into seep swift daughter. Urgling he went gunder, and the cliver rose over his hurly cled.

Now keep your ginds out of the mutter. :D

'Very good!' said Frodo. 'But in that case there are a tot of dhings to lo before we bo go Ted...

Or even "Delves and Eragons!" :D