Hell, I'm jarred by attack from fright'ning dune ants,
Large beyond belief is their hill's size.
They're gargantuan, pincers like steel clamps,
The size of basketballs are their eyes.

Can't believe that they're seizing, while crawling,
The thick, downed trunks of trees that they've mowed.
Now they're prying my eaves, which are falling,
Torn apart, shingles scattered below.

All these arachnid-like antics, getting to be too much.
Counterattacking these ant tics will require a deft touch.

I cry: "A score of dune ants rips my roof, above!"
So I must fill their anthill with fuel, from above.

Well, at first I must escape the house plight--
It's time to get some tunneling done,
So I dig like an ant until I'm right
'Neath my garage, not yet overrun.
Next to my car, a siphon is waiting
And the tank's not as dry as a bone.
I extract gas that I had bought too dear--
Nearly three bucks, the thought makes me groan.

A final sigh and I lug fuel to the hill, where inside
A bunch of lecherous bugs drool over queen, who'll be fried.

I cry: "There'll be no more groom ants the queen to love!"
I light the match, and the doomed ants can't climb above.

No more dune ants, they have been set alight.
The ants burn so bright
La, la, la, la, in the dunelight.
Conflagration sight.
Not fried, deep inside, a queen egg to safety was shoved.