The lone drummer, swaying in the breeze,
Chimes ring out for ten,
The bookbinders bound by the awning,
For some their time has come,
With dignity, she lays them to rest,
Ants search for their next lair to colonise,
Pacing to the beat of the speaker's voice,
With wispy hair and apple in hand,
The ink pours into storytelling mode,
Back to their posts in all directions,
March the armies of orange blue and white,
Five thirty the exodus begins,
Delta, Victor, India, India.
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