Low-Maintenance - a Poetic Presuming on Personal Grooming

I spend my summers in the dirt;
The pasture is my spot.
With sweat and grass stains on my shirt,
I gallop my hot-shot.
In tank and jeans, both day and night,
And slimy horse-lick facial,
My torso tan, the rest stark white;
I'm vertically biracial!

I never sport a pedicure;
In fact, quite the reverse.
I keep my feet contained, secure,
In paddock boots and spurs.
However, I have one left toe
That's twice its normal size,
Because a thoroughbred I know
Stomped me instead of flies.

My manicure is reverse-French;
With soil, rather than polish.
It carries an unusual stench,
To beckon or demolish.
I rarely paint or file my nails;
I simply let them grow,
Persnickety is for upscales,
While I am on the go.

I toss my locks into a band,
And simply let them fly,
With many an impudent strand
That falls into one eye,
Or tuck my hair into a cap
To keep it up, of course.
Long hair can be a handicap
When working with a horse.

My clothes, they're not the latest mode
Of fashion or of style,
But they protect me on the road,
When cantering a mile.
My leather boots have traveled long;
They bear a layer of crust,
But that is where I best belong,
In deep terrain and dust.

Low-maintenance could be the word
For my own regimen,
And yet, I spit-shine my whole herd;
Just take a look at them.
Each mane and tail shine in the sun
In vanity displayed.
They stand, show-ready, every one.
My horses have it made!