Don’t promise me my maybe,
Minded no promise of my will,
For no ‘kind of’ will escape me,
Upon thy dying hill.
A hill where worker ants do play,
Play away their must have wants,
In case never should ever block their way,
And the toil of the ‘no’ fills their day.
And ants are a dying breed,
Dying to breed,
Not dying from death,
For no drink or drank escaped them,
Inside their dying hill.
Shun me not my prospect names of people I will forget-
The dying hill's sand and grit.
Let me build upon thine walls,
With mine loving hoard.
Let me build the dying hill,
Closer to their lord.