歌词
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 Iker 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 a twiddle
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