Pale pony, locavore of region’s clover patches, if you can carry me through this brush with my gown emerging without snag or tear, I will recite for you a poem in ogham which is said to bring luck to its audience and which may, in fact, guide us to a field of fours rather than threes, a situation about which you can relate to your pony pals during your daily schmooze at the watering hole, assuredly a more civil topic of discourse than that which emerges from your horse mouths when you opt to brabble about which of equine, feline, or human mane is the fairest of them all, a debate for which I clearly sit with favour head and tails above the competition. ; )