Never poke a pineapple,

Right on its spiky face.

Remember they don’t tend to be supple

Or pretty and kind like white soft lace.

Behind all the sharp pokes and spines,

Hides a heart, never to be seen in the deepest of mines.

Fear flashes across,

As we give it a mighty toss.

A porcupine straightens her spines as she senses danger,

But deep down, she is as mellow as cows near a manger.

A pineapple leads a simple life,

Until emerges a sharp silver knife.

Yellow flesh acts as a skin,

Like beans covered by a tin

The heart lies beneath,

And the layer is just a covering wreath

A gem, a jewel behind the sharpest of traps,

Nothing can be found from a few gentle taps.