To a Minister

Dictate all that is to be done, make the orders,
It is right from a seat of sweat, when sat on,
Sweet as cream made from sugar: Ants steal;
Stamp them! they don't scream in fear or pain.
They dirty the floor, Spoil the food; Kill them
Before the seat is crumbled in crumbs, bits
Carried on each working shoulder: for survival.
Kill them for they cannot be tamed by a 
Thought, they cannot think, they were never taught; 
No, they don't know profit, they cannot be bought.
Kill them, they do not bleed, no stains will stain
The floor: Rid a few and there will be more,
Kill them hence and shut the door: to stop
An epidemic, An uproar of surviving labour.