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The Hedgehog 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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