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There is a decoration in this place.

I’d steal it for myself if I’d the chance.

That is, I’ve thought of it; but cannot face

the irony behind my rogueish glance..

For it is not appreciated here—

I know what it is. Its owner does not.

So ‘tis not his retribution I fear,

but some other far more sinister thought.

The thing I so desire is not, therefore,

kept from me by morality, but, still,

kept by the irony that’d be in store

by acting this utilitarian will:

It is an art piece like a palantir—

Gandalf would scorn me taking such from here.