"Gather, here at my feet, to hear the tale of a chameleon's vapid retreat," the old fellow's eyes were wide and blue, his white beard flowing like river rapids, and his staff was raised to both welcome, and remind.
"Tis the tale of a creature, feared far and wide, for his ability to persuade, to cantor, to chide. His laugh was to laud, his smile abetting fraud, even sin; tis the tale of a glutton, of a monster, maudlin".
"He lived where he wished, and he went as he pleased. His rancor, so fat, his philosophy...diseased!
The Frothers they lived, and lived as they pleased. They stole from each other, and drove wise men to their knees.
This group plagued the land, like locust and frog, of epic proportion, a philosophy of fraud.
They were liars and cheats, these Frothers they were. Filthy and diseased, in both body and soul; they were worse than the leech, more invasive than fleas.
If given a chance, they'd infect all of man, with their poisoned, sick thoughts, their pestilence a machine against man YES! they would wrought.
Together the normals made impassioned plea, to return to the old day, to reject Frother's new way.
But the Frother kept twisting, infecting with sleaze, the hapless good people of virtue and once free.
The Frother enslaves with Lucifer's promise, of a world set free if only they would follow.
'Adopt brave new world, find life even in death, for in killing an innocent, self righteous Frothers find breath'.
And so would go the Frother and his plea.
Vast millions would follow, for their world is so cool, that filthy old Frother, and his maggot-like stool.
They'd take on the form of beauty and lore, to tempt all the hapless, to trick and to scorn.
The weak would succumb and the Frother would grow, his multitudes expanding, a kingdom of of sloven rube so demanding.
Would there be any hope for the normals this day? Their hope beyond this lies in their faith, but in this life only Frothers - Frothers who stench of the wraith.
And so go the normals, to here and beyond. They are chased by the devils, for a heart so pure is the envy of Frother, yet the Frother's great quod.
So it is this purity, that stands so opposed, to the Frother's wild ambling, the tweak at his nose.
He will run and he'll chase that beauty divine, but never attain it, a devil's thought like banshee will whine.
Come back to me children, come back one day...and I'll tell you the story of a Frother's last day".
Like a vapor the old man of white he faded in woods, white beard, white robe into white rapids did he fold.
And the children did go on dark, wooded path, with pure fear in their heart of the Frother's wild dance.