In forest medeival, dark and deep,
upon tiny trails with delicate feet,
waddles the hedgehog, spiny and small,
alert and ready to roll in a ball.
Beneath the bright, full moon, round and white,
he skitters and scampers through the wild night;
surprised by badger, rugged and rough,
rolls toes to nose, vanishes in a puff.
"Come out, little hedgepig," badger growls
while shaking and snapping his hairy jowls.
"I'm grumpy, I'm mad, I've had enough.
"Uncurl, hedgepiggy, I'll munch you up."
"No thank 'ee, sir, I'll stay as I am,
"protect tender tummy best as I can.
"Don't 'ee be angry, I'll soothe with song;
"a verse of Sweet Genevieve can't go wrong."
"Who taught you this song?" the badger asks.
"Was it Merlin, the wizard? Please unclasp."
"Aye, Merlin's the one, but, if you please,
"I'll just keep my nose buried in my knees."
"No, no, little friend, I knew you then.
"Who thought we would ever meet up again?"
Badger nudged the hedgehog with his snout.
"Uncurl, little piglet, and please come out."
But hedgehog just sang Sweet Genevieve
and, under that moon, badger took his leave.
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