At morning’s angle of the sun,
Ants cast their long-lined shadows fro
To look like giants on the march,
Except they breed and live below,

Not on the earth, but deep within.
From high above I watched. They moved
In endless file, some ten abreast—
And of their sight I disapproved.

Although each pissant lifts one score-
And-five his own so paltry weight
In spoils ferociously obtained,
To me it’s diddly-squat at any rate.

They weren’t afraid of my great height.
“Am I so mountain-like to you,
Too huge to fully comprehend
From your restricted ant’s-eye view?”

But here I stood and blocked the sun;
Without impressive shadow play.
Ants were a minor nuisance—one
That I then killed with dust and spray.

It’s done! With only one quick puff,
Of Antz-ka-put, I swiftly smote
A hundred . . . oh, I lost true count;
I killed a lot— which they did note.