And I cannot stop thinking about that animal, little jawless pony,
a foreskin face tapering to its baggy conclusion, and the noise it would make:
pathetic flatulent whistle. I imagine its breath would inflate
the saggy appendage, send it flailing, like so many inflatable dancers
outside of so many used car dealerships. And when she'd eat, her face
would become a straw, noisily slurping handfuls of oats, leaving the feeders' hand
sloppy with backwash. She could not chew, our friend, but she could hold
those grains in her useless cavity for however many hours it would take
to create a gulpable paste. When she gallops across evening's great fields,
her haunches gleam, and her face swings wildly in the moonlight.

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This poem came about because I was fact-checking another poem. I described a yellow-brown color as "horses tooth", and wanted to double check that horses do in fact have yellow-brown teeth. For reasons us mortals cannot fathom, the algorithm decided that "horses teeth" is an anomalous thing to search for- but that "do horses have teeth" is a perfectly reasonable query.