Answer:
The one who makes it, sells it. The one who buys it, never uses it. The one that uses it never knows that heβs using it.
A muttered rumble was heard from the pen, and I, in my walking stopped to look in. What was this I saw? A massive beast, hoofed, and jawed. With spikes upon its mighty brow, I watched as he struck the turf and prowled. And yet for all of his magnificence, he couldn't get out of that wooden fence.
The sharp slim blade, that cuts the wind. What is it?
Put into a pit, locked beneath a grate, guarded through the night, yet it still goes out.
I have rivers without water. Forests without trees. Mountains without rocks. Towns without houses.
I break away from my pack. I create holes in my victims. I can travel for miles and then disappear. I am part of a dying breed. What am I?