Classic Poem

An old man like a gnarled and rusty spike,
A fog of ill-kempt beard around his throat,
Lean shoulders humped beneath a fusty coat,
Malignant eyes, head poised as if to strike
With shrewd, reptilian swiftness; and a tongue
That could be suave and buttery at will,
But in a moment's passion woke to shrill,
Fluoric spite, venemous, foul as dung.

“They hate me—don't I know!” he used to say.
“Hate and be damned, the whole self-righteous pack!
I know the law. I make the jackals pay
For every sneer and slur behind my back.”
We cursed him; aye,—and had we dared confess,
Admired the courage of his wickedness.