The moon was a luminous toenail,
Far ingrown,
When poor old Horace the Hedgehog
Wandered alone,
Humping his heavy hackles
Over the lawn,
Weary as all the time
Before he was born,
Fearful of badgers and foxes
And human feet,
Looking for mice
To eat.
Poor old Horace the Hedgehog
Snuffled along,
Singing against the stars
His own sad song:
‘Some might be glad to wear
A rug of prickles,
But, heavens, from the inside
How it tickles!’
Poor old Horace the Hedgehog
Shuffled away,
Singing his own sad song
Till his dying day:
‘Some might like to be screwed up
Into a ball,
But it doesn’t suit Horace –
It doesn’t suit Horace
At all!’