They called him Tranquil Timothy,
an avuncular curiosity admired for his ataraxia,
a pleasing trait he acquired in his job
at the local zythepsary, where  he plied, or
as some implied, imbibed, in zymotechnics. 
His demeanor was unquestionably bedizen,
or as Shakespeare might have described him,
a dandified barbermonger, and though he
thought himself a bluesprit, those who knew him
questioned his audacity, smiled at his
bavardage and gently spoke of his attire
in the most unmistakable charientism.
Should one of the learned ladies fluster
and say, Sir, I am afraid that you are
an ectomorphic mess, he, sipping his beer,
might reply politely, if he had the wit, dear Lady,
have a little pity: watch your grandiloquence.