Count Fathom

Many there are who, if they dared, would like my face to smack. A few in there would go too far and wish my skull would crack. They would say I earned as much, for morals I do lack. What can I do? Fed a diet from the world of blatant, brazen sin, my arteries are restricted by a sturdy moral plaque. But I’m not some kind of cruel and heartless psycho maniac. Most of my life was dull enough, I stayed upon the tracks. Little I had to carry round, it would barely fill a sack. Worry I did, most of the time, of the shirt upon my back. Would I lose it suddenly to fate’s unseen attack? I haven’t lived to please the hoard, they’re fickle and they’re vain, behaviours well established in a world that’s gone insane. I feel I live upon a very different moral plane. Simple are my principles, easy to attain. Let others do as they will do, so long as they won’t cause pain. It’s politic to join the crowd upon their moral train, and fit in just as best you can where puritans do reign. Please excuse me, I’m not going there, I think I will abstain. I like the colours in the world, I find just white arcane. I want a world of freedom. In this there’s much to gain.