They surround me, these people, they Ring me round my Judases Benign and whispering but Cankered and simpering. I have No clean bedfellow with Whom to hold a hand, and I must Stand my accusers, these false Friends, these Close-yeared ones and Wonder at their pointing finger Their incredulity. They Do not know me they Know me not, this good Scot who worked herself into A brick wall And fell. And they Refuse to help me up From the ground they Work to keep me down.next poem