A rich kid mistreats the ants living in his ant farm.
|Their yacht suddenly dips its bow
as it crests a much larger wave.
The boy says, “Take a look at how
the ants scurry; they all behave
frantically when their tunnels
collapse.” He then gives the ant farm
an extra shake. The ants trundle
along, clearing debris. The harm
to their collapsed network of paths
must be repaired for survival
of their colony. The boy’s wraths
are common in their arrival.
His sister: “Why do you torment
them so? They are merely trying
to stay alive; their days are spent
finding food to keep from dying.
You barely provide them enough
resources to live. Why not give
the ants more?” His reply was gruff.
“They’re ants! I don’t care how they live.
“They are everywhere. They aren’t used
to having it easy. It’s meant
for them to struggle, be abused.
Their time’s ninety-nine percent
“devoted to eking out a
living for their poor family.
It’s been that way many a day;
that’s how it should be, don’t you see?”
Their father calls to them, “It’s time
to head home. We have planes to catch;
we’re off to ski and mountain climb.”
“These ants’ll die. I’ll buy a new batch,”
the boy says. Then, “Our lives are content.
Our wealth ranks in the top one percent.”
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