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A Song for the Ants
Each indent that you make
On the cold, rock ground,
Only the homes will shake,
Of the ants, and it will pound.
Scurry, scurry little ants
Out to the parching sun.
You have no place to land,
So you will have to run.
Never shall you ever find
Another place to lie.
Until the earthly light goes out,
And with it will you die.

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