Thirty six martyrs,
Gone in one blast,
A mini-tsunami not covered by the news,
Their loved ones left behind.
In glory they died,
In vain they tried,
For all eternity, for all the generations to come.

Thirty six martyrs,
Gone to where all the martyrs go when they die,
Must be heaven, but I am not a martyr to know,
Died in an unfair battle with an ocean,
Victims of an evil intent called washing.

A Nescafé mug left in the sink in the morning,
With what stuck in the bottom of the three spoons of sugar,
I repeatedly tell my brother to rinse after finishing,
But he never seems to listen to me,
And so by lunchtime, a colony of ants, and tiny ants at that,
Hiding somewhere beneath the marble top,
Had invaded the cup to store whatever they store for wintertime.

And there I came, I opened the knob,
Cleansed the cup with a sponge and some dishwashing liquid,
Dried it and placed it in the upper cupboard,
Killing, in the process, thirty six ants, and tiny ones at that.