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Horse Poetry: The Trail Rider's Tool

The crop is a tool that many use,

Some light handed, some abuse.

Me? Myself? I love this thing,

Now its praises I shall sing.

Extended out and held up high,

I swat down cobwebs near my eye.

A briar bush too close to me?

The crop shall move it painlessly.

Summer comes and with it bears,

the biting flies at which I glare.

The crop runs over ear to tail,

Shooing bugs with much avail.

Finally, when turned in hand,

A weapon, should the time demand.

The crop has uses, they are varied,

So in my hand it's always carried.

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