ATOMIC ANTS
(A song sung by a madman on the day after the end of the world.)
The atomic ants will march today,
Across the grassy carpet.
They're marching with their banners, boy,
Intent on turning soft flesh scarlet.
Their bony mandibles click and clack,
A symphony of ripping skin.
Their shiny bodies marching on,
Towards the horizon's rim.
March! March! Rip and tear!
It is their battle cry.
Chomp! Chomp! Skriiip, rip...
Eat the living flesh till it dies.
Glistening atomic ants run wild,
Upon the nuclear pile.
Irradiated thorax swollen,
With blood and pus and bile.
The cities shudder and retreat,
Before the single-minded thrust,
And the human race beats its breast,
Screaming that the universe is unjust.
But smiling, stomping atomic ants,
March onwards to their glory.
Their jaws sticky with human blood,
Their stingers slimy and gory.
Liste, son, to the atomic ants,
Hear them marching on the tiles.
Look out, boy, for atomic ants,
At home on nuclear piles!
In a lab far beyond,
Tomorrow's rising sun,
Two lab technicians smile dead smiles,
Their mad task now done.
Atomic ants march in glory,
Bask under X-rays, strike a pose,
Stride into the bright green world,
Leaving behind a planet in death throes.
And the wind whispers:
"Atomic ants all hail thee!" |
