Classic Poem

With your teeth you were wont on old leather to bite,
And stretch out a sole that was mud-rotten quite,
But now you have got your dead patron's estate,
Who did not possess e'en a garret of late,
And in his bright crystal your hot drink enjoy
While you wanton at ease with his favourite boy.
Oh what a mistake that my fond parents taught
Me my letters, and tutors and schoolmasters sought!
If these are the profits from mending old shoes,
Good-bye books and pens, and adieu to the Muse.