Spiked nuisances, eager to cause you dismay,
Trample about in thick, disheveled steps.
Almost like unfinished clumps of dark clay,
They meander, oftentimes looking for feeble prey.

They tumble, fumbling within the darkest of swarms,
Out to trap the ones whom least expect.
Hark the warnings and you will truly see what they intend to do with you and me.

Lost souls are they,
In need of a cleansing storm.
Sometimes it is best to stay indoors,
Away from those wild thorns.