Classic Poem

There is nothing worn smoother than Hedylus' cloak:
Not the neck of a mule that has long known the yoke,
Not the handle of some old Corinthian jar,
Not the ramshackle wheel of a slow-moving car,
Not the leg that for ten years a fetter has borne,
Not the hoe that long usage in vineyards has worn,
Not pebbles nor ruts on our northern highway,
Not a pauper's wan toga who's seen his last day,
Not a bison's posterior scraped by the cage,
Not the tusk of a boar savage in his old age;
Yes, there is just one thing: and he will not deny it:
The place where he sits on's more smooth, if you try it.