Least of all scruples, failure to remove
The restless ant by well-shod squashing, will
Refrain from formicide, grammatically.
So said the Muse pro Forma, who declined
Explaining further. Comme d'habitude, of course.
Bestowing roses, all the asters gone,
She smiled my way and spat, which must be something.
I sang her "Autumn Leaves," but I said "Auden,"
And she dissolved, bequeathing a hill of ants
Shaped like a castle, right there on the rug.
"Remember when we all were friends," I said;
But ants don't laugh or break into applause.
If they were singing, none of it would rhyme,
All of them buzzed by unison. They're not.
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