Vernon Scannell - Nettles lyrics

My son aged three fell in the nettle bed. 'Bed' seemed a curious name for these green spears, That regiment of spite behind the shed: It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears The boy came seeking comfort and I saw White blisters beaded on his tender skin. We soothed him till his pain was not so raw. At last he offered us a watery grin, And then I took my hook and honed the blade And went outside and slashed in fury with it Till not a nettle in that fierce parade Stood upright any more .Next task: I lit A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead. But in two weeks the busy sun and rain Had called up tall recruits behind the shed: My son would often feel sharp wounds again.