There’s nothing quite as bothersome as cheeky garden ants.
They’re tiny and unpleasant. They invade your underpants!
They bite, distract and fluster; they can overrun your street,
They crawl along your skin and then they nibble on your feet.
We’ve all been to a picnic where, like ill-timed summer rain,
The ants come uninvited, driving everyone insane.
Three or four decide to swim some laps inside the dip,
You have to pick off ants before you bite into a chip.
I have my own ant story that’s inordinately worse.
One fated spring, I suffered from a ghastly insect curse.
The ants conspired—colluded—in a union of ant doom.
And soon enough, they made a plan to overrun my room.
They came in through the window. You probably aren’t shocked.
But wait until I tell you that the window had been locked.
A dozen ants had come in to explore—a recon batch,
They checked the coast was clear and then they pried open the latch.
Mum always said my bedroom was the cause of half her stress.
She couldn’t stand the smell of it; the sight of all the mess.
“You’ll find a mouse one day,” she said. A mother’s warning tale.
I never knew my mess could cause a problem of this scale.
They started in my bedroom. They took my boiled sweets.
They emptied every drawer and nook of all my hidden treats.
They stole half-eaten cupcakes and then half-filled cans of pop.
But after taking all my food, they darn well didn’t stop.
GONE was all our cereal. GONE were cans of soup.
GONE was all the packet food, in one fell antsy swoop.
Mum glared at me, while holding up an empty bag of rice.
“It’s not my fault!” I said. “Besides! At least we don’t have lice!”