My Feet are Longfellows and Smell like the Dickens

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village wordsmith stands,
Recycling aged chestnuts
In the language of the land;
And the lexis stored within his brain
Is large as Genghis’ bands.

His hair is limp and grey and long,
His speech is not laconic,
But rather incomprehensible
Which he finds quite ironic,
As words like orthoepy and catachresis
To him are like spring tonic.

He uses many an ancient saw
To hew the mighty oak,
And throws out words like perendinate
To confuse the common folk.
And after you’ve listened for a while
You wish the blighter’d choke.