Firstly the Moth

Firstly, the Moth. Pristine
in sea green scarf,
he seems at first
a hero cursed by
delicacy. Worse: a tendency
towards being dandy, distracted
by vanity. How can
this foppish man fight
armoured bands, knife-happy
brigands etc.? Outdapper them?
But snappy dressing's no
mere peacock show for
Moth. No, his every
Windsor knot, feathery sleeve,
neat leathery cuban heel,
pressed lapel, yields power.
Fresh skills emerge at
changes of hat, shirt,
lace cravat. He shoots
fireballs in zoot suits;
cowboy boots let him
shrink until slim enough
to swim through grates.
He's in straits without
his waisted tailcoat. Perfect
for close detective work,
when decked out thus,
he can untruss puzzles
without fuss, just a
flourish, loud "ha!" and
a cigar or two.
Moth gets glued sometimes,
it's true, to this
magical wardrobe. His main
failing, a pain borne
by disdainful Deviants, is
the delay his careful
accessorising causes. He protests
that a clash upsets the
balance. Chest full of
duff missiles? Toffee mistaken
for coffee belt. Escaped
rash of caped ghouls?
Well drape puce over
lavender and cover all
heads. Utter madness. One
can't rush perfection, guys.