My mind is challenged by the chatter of the ants,
they scurry around in search of their master,
perturbing me and driving me mad.
They use their special communication forms,
...
They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen
Do you think that I do not know?
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