An inch worm may never know Of the world beyond the yard. The large cities built Or the farms there are to farm The marvels of technology Are lost in the grass of my backyard What is the rest of the world to them? What do they care who is in charge? Or which country they reside in, What language the inhabitants speak? What those large images passing by are? And what those loud noises all mean? How they can travel, From one place to the next. If it isn’t absolutely relevant, They could absolutely care less. How small these things are, That live under our shoes In our big wide world With our big wide rules.
And yet we are Busy, busy, busy With plans going to and fro With never a thought To the shoes we’re under Never a thought To the wider wonders Never a thought That we are the small The fraught Never a thought, To whose backyard we’re in.