Classic Poem

Friend Hedylus' cloak is a sight to behold,
It's ragged, it's tattered, it's battered, it's old,
Not the handles of flaggons grown smoother from wear,
Not the legs of chained asses more mangy and bare,
Not the ruts of a highway where market carts meet,
Not the round shining pebbles on which the waves beat,
The rags of dead paupers, spades ground by the soil,
Nor the cart wheel made bright in its circular toil,
Not the flank of the bison, rubbed raw in his lair,
Not an old boar's white tusk ground down to a stump,
Are so worn as old Hedylus' cloak, yet I'd swear
That his cloak's much less worn than the hole in his rump.