Answer:
He stands beside the road. In a purple cap at tattered green cloak. Those who touch him, curse him.
In your fire you hear me scream, creaking and whining, yet I am dead before you lay me in your hearth.
You heart it speak, for it has a hard tongue. But it cannot breathe, for it has not a lung.
You get many of me, but never enough. After the last one, your life soon will snuff. You may have one of me but one day a year, When the last one is gone, your life disappears.
What do people want the least on their hands?
What do you purposefully put lots of in and on your body, but run away from when you encounter it outside?