I am surrounded by
Squeaky wheels
Getting greased with
My blood
But nobody notices my
Pock-marked skin
The barbs of these
Prickly bushes around me
Tear at my skin leave
Noxious residue behind to
Fester until
Coming to a head
Ichor release offends those
Who caused the
Infection
Yet those squeaky wheels
Cry out for my blood
Not recognising the
Two way street
That they travel upon
