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Ant Hill

 Black ants have made a musty mound
My purple pine tree under,
And I am often to be found,
Regarding it with wonder.
Yet as I watch, somehow it;s odd, Above their busy striving I feel like an ironic god Surveying human striving.
Then one day came my serving maid, And just in time I caught her, For on each lusty arm she weighed A pail of boiling water.
She said with glee: "When this I spill, Of life they'll soon be lacking.
" Said I: "If even one you kill, You bitch! I'll send you packing.
" Just think - ten thousand eager lives In that toil-worn upcasting, Their homes, their babies and their wives Destroyed in one fell blasting! Imagine that swift-scalding hell! .
And though, mayhap, it seems a Fantastic, far-fetched parallel - Remember .

Poem by Robert William Service
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