A voice echoed in his deep grot

He was knobbed and wrinkled, and his limbs bent in the long years to his gold chained;in his heart's furnace the fire waned.To his belly's slime gems stuck thick,silver and gold he would snuff and lick:he knew the place of the least ring beneath the shadow of his black wing.

Of thieves he thought on his hard bed,and dreamed that on their flesh he fed,their bones crushed, and their blood drank:his ears drooped and his breath sank.Mail-rings rang. He heard them not.A voice echoed in his deep grot:a young warrior with a bright sword called him forth to defend his hoard.