You can disregard my labours
as I rush with great intent;
you can spray me with insecticide
but still I'll be content.

Why does industry annoy you?
Just delight in my travail;
time to worry when my movements
are as sluggish as a snail's.

Forget the goals and the aims
and the stress they represent.
I'll keep working for my pleasure.
I'm content.

Do the hours I spend digging
endless tunnels make me spent?
Or do I thrive on working
just wherever I am sent?

Do your garden edges suffer
when I make my kingdoms come?
Does the making of my bedrooms
start to spoil your lovely home?

You can visit Garden Centres,
seek advice, all kindly meant.
You can lay down deadly poison,
but still I'll be content.

Are you angered by my calmness?
Is your patience almost spent?
Still I go about my business
just the way I always went.

Down in the depths, burrowed and safe.
I'm content.
Up in the air, a six-legged waif,
I'm content.
I'm a black insect, determined and keen,
working instinctively, cold-faced and mean,
leaving behind any thoughts of repose,
I'm content
with my lot. I can smell the new rose -
I'm content.
Only agreeing to do what is right,
I am the warrior, ready to fight.
I'm content.
I'm content.
I'm content.