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An ant on the tablecloth
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1 |
| Ran into a dormant moth |
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| Of many times his size. |
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| He showed not the least surprise. |
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| His business wasn't with such. |
5 |
| He gave it scarcely a touch, |
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| And was off on his duty run. |
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| Yet if he encountered one |
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| Of the hive's enquiry squad |
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| Whose work is to find out God |
10 |
| And the nature of time and space, |
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| He would put him onto the case. |
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| Ants are a curious race; |
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| One crossing with hurried tread |
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| The body of one of their dead |
15 |
| Isn't given a moment's arrest- |
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| Seems not even impressed. |
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| But he no doubt reports to any |
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| With whom he crosses antennae, |
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| And they no doubt report |
20 |
| To the higher-up at court. |
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| Then word goes forth in Formic: |
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| "Death's come to Jerry McCormic, |
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| Our selfless forager Jerry. |
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| Will the special Janizary |
25 |
| Whose office it is to bury |
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| The dead of the commissary |
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| Go bring him home to his people. |
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| Lay him in state on a sepal. |
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| Wrap him for shroud in a petal. |
30 |
| Embalm him with ichor of nettle. |
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| This is the word of your Queen." |
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| And presently on the scene |
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| Appears a solemn mortician; |
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| And taking formal position, |
35 |
| With feelers calmly atwiddle, |
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| Seizes the dead by the middle, |
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| And heaving him high in air, |
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| Carries him out of there. |
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| No one stands round to stare. |
40 |
| It is nobody else's affair |
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| It couldn't be called ungentle |
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| But how thoroughly departmental. |
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