Insects are running for time
That magic world - it makes them cry
It makes them not to think of it
Another nonsense, yeah, indeed
Their croud's full of different things
Not connected, full of blinks
That have no lines between and then
Won't have them anyway again
The insects build, they recreate
World never has been made
Too many things to be afraid
They are afraid to build it late
So every day, before and now
Insects are running round and round
A click, a tiny little sound
And it will end their endless count
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