On Monday all the worker ants will tumble from their nest;
and fall in step, and punch the clock, and strive to do their best...
Their faces melt in sadness 'neath the steam of Starbuck's brew;
they will not slack or stab your back--unless they're ordered to.
They'll boot up, suit up, dress the part as all employees must;
They'll find their way, another day...retirement or bust!
They will not lie but with a sigh they may confabulate...
the ladder of success is made of irony they hate.
Too late to kiss the kids goodnight they'll hasten nonetheless...
to home, to bed, to dread the dawn with ever mounting stress.
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