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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