Somewhere beyond our atmosphere,
out in the sphere of Mars,
a race of giant ants live
in the pale light of the stars.
The light is pale and wan there
for compared to earthly bright,
the planet is much further from
the heat of Sun's warm light.
Ants are rather martial
when confronted by their kind,
but when they've tertian fever,
they can't keep war on their mind.
Instead, they go back to their nest
and browse the bookish stores,
and curl up by the fire
where they read and make s'mores.
The firelight is flick'ry quick,
the noontime sun is wan.
The formicacious readers find
their eyesight soon is gone.
Myopia's their racial flaw,
so glasses they must wear.
The curves of care-carved crystal
make their eyesight seem a stare.
All bug-eyed, they must wander 'round
with large glass spectacles,
avoiding Dejah Thoris and John
They have to dodge, so not to step
on Cacciaguida's toe.
"Fire soul!", they each cry out,
when Marcus is their foe.
The Beagle didn't make it:
that's one not rolling 'round.
The Spirit is a problem,
when you're two feet off the ground.
When day is done, and sun has set,
and giant ants to bed,
the planet's rather safer than
when the planet's red.
will tell you that it's true:
Effective laser eye surgeons,
on Mars, are very few.