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An ant on the tablecloth
An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth Of 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 one Of the hive's enquiry squad Whose work is to find out God And the nature of time and space, He would put him onto the case. Ants are a curious race; One crossing with hurried tread The body of one of their dead Isn't given a moment's arrest- Seems not even impressed. But he no doubt reports to any With whom he crosses antennae, And they no doubt report To the higher-up at court. Then word goes forth in Formic: 'Death's come to Jerry McCormic, Our selfless forager Jerry. Will the special Janizary Whose office it is to bury The dead of the commissary Go 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 scene Appears 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 affair It couldn't be called ungentle But how thoroughly departmental
An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth That was much bigger than him. He did not seem surprised at all. He had no business with it. He barely touched it, And went on with his work. But if he met one From the hive's inquiry team Whose job is to discover God And the essence of time and space, He would involve him in the matter. Ants are a strange species; One hurriedly crossing over The body of one of their dead Doesn't stop for a moment - Seems not even to care. But he surely reports to anyone With whom he touches antennae, And they surely report To the higher-ups in the colony. Then news spreads in ant language: 'Death has come to Jerry McCormic, Our dedicated forager Jerry. Will the special burial officer Whose duty is to bury The dead of the colony Go bring him back to his family. Lay him out on a flower petal. Wrap him in a petal for a shroud. Embalm him with plant juice. This is the message from your Queen.' And soon a serious undertaker appears; And takes a formal position, With feelers moving calmly, Grabs the dead by the middle, And lifting him high in the air, Carries him away. No one stops to watch. It is not anyone else's concern. It can't be called rude, But how completely routine.