Be mine.

Hey you, I’m seeking your attention by
politely trying to get through to you,
but your shawl is wrapped tight and
your ill-natured face too exclusive.
Please take some time to consider my
Request, and the rest of them passing
your tower, and do not dismiss us as
insects or tread careless and compact
our heads and our hearts, or bear envy
and hatred towards us.
But if you do so then here is my knife
for your use; why don’t you slice up my
throat and bleed it into the moat you
have dug around your shrouded walls?
The ones no trebuchet can penetrate,
or ordnance survey; the ones un-scaled
by education and its ever changing preachers,
those mossed over by the moral decay
of leadership speeches, neglected and
abandoned and toasted in the hellfire
bars of Whitehall – my walls.