The cicada, having sung all summer, all summer
Found herself really destitute when the north wind came
Not a single tiny bit of fly or grub
She went to cry famine at the ant's house, her neighbor
A few grains to survive
Until the new season
"I'll pay you," she told her
Before August, animal's honor
The ant isn't a lender
That's her smallest flaw
"What were you doing in the warm times?"
She asked this borrower
Night and day, to everyone passing
I was singing, if you don't mind
You were singing, I'm very glad
Really destitute, really destitute