Classic Poem

My beak is bent downward, I burrow below;
I grub in the ground and go as he guides,
My gray, old master, foe of the forest.
Stoop-shouldered my warder walks at my back,
Fares through the field, urges and drives me,
Sows in my track as I sniff along.
Fetched from the wood, cunningly fitted,
Brought in a wagon, I have wondrous skill.
As I go my way on one side is green;
On the other side plain is my dark path.
Set through my back hangs a cunning spike;
Another fixed forward is fast to my head.
What I tear with my teeth falls to one side,
If he handles me right who is my ruler.