|Nature: out to get you|
You have no fragrant smell or petals
All you are is bouquet of pins
Pricking my ankles and hurting my shins
The reddened bumps begin to rise...
And then you sting me on my thighs
How is it that you have mastered
Getting through clothes? You spiteful bastard!
I'll have to change my running loop
Or turn you into nettle soup