Running with the Right Herd - a Poetic Tribute to True Friends

My friends, they're not so cool at all.
I think they need an overhaul,
An extrication from the mall
And tutoring in protocol.

Their manicures are without flaw;
It ought to be against the law,
Their afternoons spent at the spa,
Where every day is Mardi Gras.

They need some soil beneath their nails,
From strolling scenic nature trails
And scavenging at rummage sales
For bridles, halters, and feed pails.

My friends' ideals set me asunder,
Baffle me and make me wonder:
As they browse for pretty plunder,
Do I dare to steal their thunder?

For I am rich beyond their dreams;
My muddy face, it fairly gleams,
My life much more than e'er it seems,
For I have won the herd's esteem.

This graceful gentry does not care
What labels or designs I wear,
Or if my jeans should sport a tear;
Their noses arch not in the air.

We plunge and romp in mud and dust,
For that is how we learn to trust,
And even if our hair is mussed,
Our dear companionship is just.

My proper friends are not so swell,
And this is how we all can tell:
If I approach with equine smell,
They curtly bid me fond farewell.