A little nonsense created in childhood
To moniker a character in my brain
Who was everything I saw as cool
A name with no meaning at all
Except to capture her beauty
I thought the letters perfect
Their arrangement pretty
And I kept her around
And for years since
I used her name
Or is it mine
I guess it
Belongs
To just
Me

Young son, whist here and listen to your grand old father’s tale

Be careful with your name, my lad, 'round monsters from the pale

For one day it was Skeletor who stopped past my front door

I let him in, stole most my name, and put his own before!

In the past, beyond the pale

A forgotten story, a foreign tale

Traversing through a mountainous wood

A lone figure, wearing a hood

The forest was dire, but he walked with ease

Because he alone was the master of trees

Branches sway to clear a street

For any other, they would surely beat

What was the name of that man on the hill?

Why, none other than Tom Bombadil!

I had to do two,

Because the first wasn’t true.

I was a child of a young sort

When I looked upon my porch.

In order to cut our trees faster,

My dad bought The Tree Master.

It was a wood chipper with buttons and levers.

I borrowed it’s name and thought myself clever.

That was well over 10 years ago.

I never came up with a new name, though.