Blood stained fingers and mucasy clothes.
Why do these pickers pick their nose?
Didn't their mamas ever love them,
or the man in the sky up above them?

Is it natural instinct? Who taught this trade?
They pick, look, and smile at what their nose made.
They pick with such force; but yet, delicately.
And chomp on those snots like a delicacy.

Lovers may bleed from the prick of a rose,
fighters will bleed from knuckles and toes;
but, rather bleed than blow, there are those
who dare raise a finger, and pick their nose.