They curses us, the hurt us, they gnaw, break and bite at us. Murderer they calls us, Gollum, my precios.
 

The light of the moon, it burns and it freezes us. Light from the sun, it roasts us and cookses us.
 

But they do not see, the smeagol within me. The one who, like deagol, went fishing near the river of bree.
 

O' precious, the long years have beaten and broken us. The lives we have taken, my precious, they haunts us. Deep in the misty mountain we dwelled, til the bagginses, the thief, to our cave he did fell.
 

Gollum! He tricksed us, he lied to us, he ran. The precious was in his pocketses. Not string or handses. We hates him, we hates him, we hates him, forever. We will get you back, precious, and loose you again never.