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Go to the ant, O sluggard, Consider her ways as wise; Winter soon with a blizzard, For the future open eyes. Without having any guide, No overseer or ruler; Taking your journey in stride, Vigilant of the fouler. She prepares bread in summer, Gather her food in harvest; For winter is a bummer, Without the food to digest. How long will you be lying, When will you rise from your sleep; You are not even trying, For preparing to reap. Having a little slumber, Folding of the hands to rest; Motionless like some lumber, Not showing the Lord your best. You shall live in poverty, Being like an armed robber; Immoral since puberty, In water like a bobber. Copyright © 2021 Richard Newton Sherrer Vote for this poem
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