nside a mound, below the ground,
They rush about without a sound
Until they check the storehouse door
And find much less than was before.
"Our food is gone, what shall we do?
There's not one crumb for us to chew!
We must collect a fit cuisine
To feed ourselves and stuff our queen!"
In single file, with single thought,
They sense the days are growing hot
So off they march in one platoon,
To raid the picnic grounds of June.