What's this round and prickly thing?

Can it be a pincushion?

No!  Pincushions never grow,

In the fields where the daisies blow!

Oh!  and now I see a nose,

With four little tiny toes,

And as it opens in the sun,

How those black beetles cut and run!

But see, it hears a barking dog,

And rolls up safe, that poor hedgehog!

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