Singing Hobbitling

Hey guys! This week, I'm doing something a little different. My two-word prompts have started to bore me (always a dangerous thing with a writer) so I've decided to share a couple random fanfiction snippets I've written for a friend recently. Let me know if you like them!
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The door, yawning before them like a great, dark mouth, seemed to Bilbo rather sinister in the failing light. He realized with a rather unpleasant start that the dwarves' eyes, shining in the dark, were all fixed on him. It was time (despite the lack of supper) for him to render the promised service. Swallowing in an attempt to banish the fear lodged in his throat, the little hobbit crept forward.

Five feet high the door, read the runes on the map, and three my walk abreast. It had sounded large to him in his comfortable parlor among the trappings of his comfortable life, but now he appreciated how enormous the door really was. Three dwarves could walk abreast, and most of the dwarves were twice as wide as he, and half again as tall. It all served to make him feel small and foolish as he moved into the deep shadows, the velvety blackness of the tunnel beyond swallowing him quite as completely as he had so recently failed to swallow his fear.

The tunnel was long, cool, and very dark. It sloped gradually downward, and fearing he would stumble directly into the dragon's flank, the hobbit proceeded with exaggerated caution. There was a short set of shallow stone steps down which he nearly fell, and the air grew thick and hot as he went further and further in and further and further down. Ahead, at last, he saw a glimmer of light, and heard a deep, rhythmic rumbling, like the purring of a huge tomcat. Under the rumble, which was almost constant, he heard other noises. The clink of metal on metal, and a quiet splashing noise, like a fountain. Not understanding what his ears were trying to tell him, the hobbit crept nearer the door, moving as quietly as a hobbit can.

A chamber opened in front of him, easily the size of the field where the Party Tree grew back in Hobbiton, if not even larger. As far as his eyes could see, illuminated by a curious, sourceless, ruddy glow, mountains of gold and silver and gems, brass and obsidian and who knew what else. Wrought and unwrought, raw nuggets and cast plates and elaborately engraved weapons. It was more the sheer size of the place than the wealth that staggered him, and Bilbo stood for quite a long time, looking out over it with an open mouth.

Then he saw, or thought he saw, tiny figures moving along the piles of gold and things. Edging forward, he squinted down from the landing on which he stood, far above the nearest slope of precious things. Yes, there were figures sorting through the gold. Some with barrels, others with rags for polishing, and still others (Bilbo nearly bit his tongue to see it) tending to the enormous bulk of the dragon himself, polishing his scales and filing his claws. There was even one on the dragon's huge triangular head, busily buffing the short bony horns that crested the imperious red-gold brow.

Bilbo knew no more what to think about this than he knew how to hoot like an owl, but he knew one thing for certain. Thorin must be told.

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Bilbo woke suddenly out of what seemed to be a deep sleep, and lay quite still, very awake and wondering what had disturbed him. He listened, watched the pattern of sunlight on the quilt. There didn't seem to be anything happening in the hole that would have woken him so early on a Saturday. He'd just been having a bit of a lie in. Frodo was moving about in the kitchen, probably making breakfast.

Bilbo felt himself gradually relaxing, and wondered again what had wakened him. Maybe a bad dream. He was about to roll over and go back to sleep when he sat bolt upright, rigid with dawning horror.

That noise from the kitchen wasn't cooking. It was singing. In a fever of haste, Bilbo leapt out of bed, throwing on his housecoat and hardly noticing that he had it on backwards. As he threw open his bedroom door, he heard the words floating along the passage.

"Pour the milk on the pantry floooooooor, splash the wine on every door!"

No one listening to that cheerful little voice might think the faunt was actually going to do such horrible things, but Bilbo knew better. Frodo was a very literal child.

Why, oh why did the best bedroom have to be so far from the main kitchen? Bilbo strained his ears as he sprinted down the passage.

"Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl, pound them up with a thumping pole..." The crash of crockery made Bilbo's heart leap into his mouth. He skidded around the corner into the kitchen and snatched the faunt away from the crockery cabinet before he could pull down another bowl.

"That is not a nice song," he wheezed, clutching the squirming child to his breast and looking despairingly at his ruined kitchen. "I told Bofur not to teach it to you, but would he listen, oh, no, of course-"

"Wouldn't listen to what?" asked a deep, unmistakably Dwarvish voice from the door to the dining room. Bilbo squeaked in a most undignified manner and nearly dropped Frodo, who squealed in delight.

"Uncle Kili!!!"