A Bristle Inspection

My morning promenade along the outdoor landing brought me before a formidable cast-iron boot scraper, its stiff coir bristle pads choked by a dry, defiant sycamore seed. Insolence! A commander cannot permit foreign flotsam to obstruct his parade grounds. Marching along the cold fluted iron bar, I hooked my curved claw beneath the winged pod's fibrous propeller. Leaning backward with calculated theatrical swagger, I hauled the stubborn seed clear of the wire ribs. With an imperious flourish of my golden rapier, I flicked the debris cleanly over the step, leaving the coarse bristles standing in disciplined, razor-straight ranks. The perimeter is restored to immaculate decorum.