The Tatterdemalion

Not a creature but a thing,
Some odd not yet dead thing
(Though likely soon to die)
That may have never known a spring,
Living autumns, working winters
In all sorts of casts and slings,
A thing of breaks and splinters,

Thrashed and splattered
Smashed and scattered
Trashed and shattered
Bashed and battered

Some things don’t get used.
This thing has no such blues.
Why’s it tattered?
Because it mattered.