Classic Poem

Y OU'RE as poor as a church-mouse, as strong as a horse,
As brisk as a prize-fighter full of brute force,
And yet you delight on six shoulders to ride,
In spite of the fact that you're laughed at and guyed
More than you would be if you strolled through the town
Quite stripped to the buff and to all naked shown.
A giant astride of a mule his own size
Would not be a mark for more wondering eyes;
A mahout on an elephant would not attract
More scornful attention, and that is a fact.
Don't you see how your litter in all our throats sticks;
Why even your corpse should not be borne by six.