What’s this round and prickly thing?
Can it be a pincushion?
No! Pincushions never grow
In the fields where daisies blow.
Oh! and now I see a nose
With four little tiny toes.
And as it opens in the sun
How those blackbeetles cut and run!
But see, it hears a barking dog
And rolls up safe, that poor hedgehog.
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