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!