i drift to sleep as i lay,
breathing in a warm summers day.
i love to sleep nestled in the soft green grass,
feeling rested and peaceful, sitting on my ass
but insects bug and pester me
never happy will they be
until i'm up and running around
while they sit and yell and shout
"you need to learn to pull your weight!"
"hurry it up buddy! your already late!"
they fuss and bitch, complaining is their task
so that i cannot sit in the bright sun and bask
with a blade of grass beneath my body, and a leaf beneath my head
i'd snore, sleep and dream till i need to be fed
but No Nooo! this here bug aint allowed!
i hafta be out workin till the sun has bowed
till its gone behind the hills and out of our sight
then we must sleep in the cold with no light
i ask you, what the hell has become of me?
is this my life, or am i still in a dream?
a tiny little ant, in a gigantic colony
always being afraid of our lil "hill" fallin in on me
the queens always givin burth to a million more ants
so why in hell do i still hafta chop these gawd damned plants?!
can't she make the young ones come in and work instead of us?
force them to knaw and knash with their pinchers till they almost bust!
but nothing ever changes, no it never does
which causes all the workers to spaz, bitch and cus
eventually i get to sleep and dream of quiet meadows
filled with food and water, and plenty of shady shadows
even though i have to wake to find its all in my head
suicide sounds great but you can't dream when you are dead.
so this is my life. i live it like any normal insect should.
if i could change it, i'm not totally sure i would.
ok, now this poem is stupidly, moronicly and idioticly lame.
But its obviously going to be because the author is insane.

dont ask... Just dont ask...