Tattered Clothes

It wore the stains of dust and dirt;
with age, adding to its wear;
yet, my wardrode, I couldn’t desert;
tho, in much need of repair.

When young, my clothes were fine;
neat, pressed, and in style;
with my energy inside; aligned;
those clothes; gone for a while.

Like a home; where I’d reside;
becoming offensive to my nose.
I no longer walked with pride;
while wearing such tattered clothes.

It’s often said, “Clothes make the man”
and I must obligingly concur;
a bedraggled wardrobe; not the plan;
nor the outfit to which I’d refer.

Clothes don’t really make the man;
they’re a picture of what he desires to be;
the body is a wardrobe, the soul planned;
to differentiate you from me.

How you appear to another’s eyes;
says nothing about your soul;
your body is a wardrobe’s disguise;
for that is the body’s role.

Great wisdom is often linked to age;
and, it seems, nearly everyone knows;
if you’re seeking one smart, to engage;
he’s the one wearing tattered clothes.