There’s a hedgehog in my tunic
When I do stomp his insides out.
There’s a hedgehog in my tunic
The one I got in old
(It’s prickly when he moves about.)
The trim is all black and runic.
(I hope he is not bubonic.
If he proves to be, I will shout
And shriek and flail and act the lout.)
Shortly, I’ll want gin and tonic
As I send the beast in a rout.
I shall not be melancholic
When I stomp his insides out.
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