by Victor W. Breeser, A Man Who Doesn't*

There's a race of men that fit in so well,
A race that just stands still;
They'll just watch as the whole world goes to hell,
So long as they eat their fill.
They lock their doors, and they board their windows,
And they always say their pray'rs;
They hide in a place where no one knows,
And no one really cares.

Although they walk straight, they don't go far,
For their knowledge is overdue;
They just want things to remain as they are,
And they fear all things new.
They say: "Had that thing never happened,
We won't be struggling like this."
So they refuse change, logic dampened,
But ignorance ain't always bliss.

And each is trapped in his haunted past,
Of that road he failed to take;
So he hides behind a faceless mask,
Another grave mistake.
Each day's a struggle staying sane,
When silence is too much to ask;
Till he stands one day, with an unsound brain,
And the monster is revealed at last.

He's insane, he's insane; he's overflowed his brim;
He has cut a ***** in half.
Life's made a jolly good joke on him,
But now he gets the last laugh.
Ha, ha! He takes life with no regard;
He must be The Devil's kin,
And as heads start rolling, best be on your guard;
There are *monsters who fit in.