Oh, please, little children, take note of my name:
To call me a thistle is really a shame:
I'm harmless old Knapweed, who grows on the chalk,
I will never prick you when out for your walk.
Yet I should be sorry, yes, sorry indeed,
To cut your small fingers and cause them to bleed;
So bid me Good Morning when out for your walk,
And mind how you pull at my very tough stalk.