Sports of late

Of half man, nay half hound,
Cast upon me ten as late,
My hair faint and frizzed by grabs,
All whose eyes peck upon me gore,
As every skin of me itches so sore,
And they pass me round like sponge,
Of the squeeze they beat, nor is my fluid,
Top and lick and the pitches full,
Wrecked are such rough edges and filed,
My feet thrust and then they clapped away,
Those are props of yore, and they returned.
My looping hair followed their orbit thrown,
As each cupped hand bailed forth its hiss,
And the venom was all too sweet ignored,
And the steps of yore knew their feet round,
Whilst all I've stooped its miles in year around,
Gave proof my plea for still in hearth asound.