Pity Evil his quaintness and old-fangled 
Manners, his age, his nerves so raw that bells 
And firecrackers leave him spooked and jangled. 
Shy of onion, garlic, pungent smells, 

His stomach thrown off by a pinch of salt, 
He hankers for blandness like an invalid. 
He stands on ceremony. He will halt 
When not invited in. You can be rid 

Of his presence by vulgarity—eschew
His curious eye by spitting, and offend
His queer aesthetics with the color blue. 
Beauty attracts him. He’s quick to befriend 

The lucky, the talented, the heaven-sent— 
At your service, if not your command— 
Courtly, brought close by a compliment, 
Bowing, with his black hat in his hand.