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.
Holy City
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