Wait! Watch to see who will go straight for the cone’s carbs and avoid all the fat. When finished, he will carry the rest back to the den on his back.
An ant on the tableclothRan into a dormant mothOf many times his size.He showed not the least surprise.His business wasn’t with such.He gave it scarcely a touch,And was off on his duty run.Yet if he encountered oneOf the hive’s enquiry squadWhose work is to find out GodAnd the nature of time and space,He would put him onto the case.Ants are a curious race;One crossing with hurried treadThe body of one of their deadIsn’t given a moment’s arrest-Seems not even impressed.But he no doubt reports to anyWith whom he crosses antennae,And they no doubt reportTo the higher-up at court.Then word goes forth in Formic:’Death’s come to Jerry McCormic,Our selfless forager Jerry.Will the special JanizaryWhose office it is to buryThe dead of the commissaryGo bring him home to his people.Lay him in state on a sepal.Wrap him for shroud in a petal.Embalm him with ichor of nettle.This is the word of your Queen.’And presently on the sceneAppears a solemn mortician;And taking formal position,With feelers calmly atwiddle,Seizes the dead by the middle,And heaving him high in air,Carries him out of there.No one stands round to stare.It is nobody else’s affairIt couldn’t be called ungentleBut how thoroughly departmental
Wait! Watch to see who will go straight for the cone’s carbs and avoid all the fat. When finished, he will carry the rest back to the den on his back.
An ant on the tableclothRan into a dormant mothOf many times his size.He showed not the least surprise.His business wasn’t with such.He gave it scarcely a touch,And was off on his duty run.Yet if he encountered oneOf the hive’s enquiry squadWhose work is to find out GodAnd the nature of time and space,He would put him onto the case.Ants are a curious race;One crossing with hurried treadThe body of one of their deadIsn’t given a moment’s arrest-Seems not even impressed.But he no doubt reports to anyWith whom he crosses antennae,And they no doubt reportTo the higher-up at court.Then word goes forth in Formic:’Death’s come to Jerry McCormic,Our selfless forager Jerry.Will the special JanizaryWhose office it is to buryThe dead of the commissaryGo bring him home to his people.Lay him in state on a sepal.Wrap him for shroud in a petal.Embalm him with ichor of nettle.This is the word of your Queen.’And presently on the sceneAppears a solemn mortician;And taking formal position,With feelers calmly atwiddle,Seizes the dead by the middle,And heaving him high in air,Carries him out of there.No one stands round to stare.It is nobody else’s affairIt couldn’t be called ungentleBut how thoroughly departmental