Pisaries Creator

They march like ants heading to a log,
but I do not want to sit on a log,
and those hardworking ant legs 
shouldn't resemble my thoughts.

The marching song is stuck somewhere
inside this operating brain of mine,
the ants go marching one by one,
hurrah, hurrah.

Hurrah, hurrah, the thumbs are gone,
as no one is watching me work hard,
to witness my level of dedication,
taking no time to stop and rest.

Making my feet stand in place,
no rest for the unrecognized,
the wrong thing to do,
and my eyes show evidence of weariness.

My thoughts are intrusive, 
terribly uncomfortable and forceful,
unsure if I did the right thing,
this could haunt me later.

Ignoring and wishing it's not there
isn't a good coping mechanism,
and worker ants don't feel loss or betrayal,
when another dies.

The brains are simpler and smaller,
the ants continue marching five by five,
even when their brothers and sisters
are murdered, hurrah, hurrah.

Remove the decay out of the way,
it causes unfocused behavior,
order has to be preserved,
the straight line must be maintained.

Thoughts splinter away from the group,
don't know if they are right or left,
more ants join the quest, hurrah, hurrah,
little ones are eager to please.

The ants go marching nine by nine,
hurrah, hurrah, their efficient legs,
are almost there at the top,
hurrah, hurrah.