Plead

Plead

In the quiet tear‑ful hours after a London drizzle,
A heart stands before the heavens and does not flinch;
With fingers back‑knocked, it speaks, “Plea to you, dear god,
Let me, though small, hold the worth of all the world.”

The old oak bench in Hyde Park hears this quiet call,
Its leaves rustle as if they understood the soul;
It says, “There’s no need to beg for bread or gold,
Just ask politely and the answer will unfold.”

Plead – a word that curls like a vine around an old wall.
The verb, the noun, the thread that ties the pleas of all.
In Parliament, the law‑givers plead with craft and care,
As if each "do not" turned into a reasonbare.

When a child blinks at dawn, taking flour for her pie,
She pleads for patience: “Stop the loud, lad, give me the sky.”
And everyone but the fox in the garden knows,
That a simple “please” is the flourish that dough grows.

So each day, whether on a train to Birmingham or in a loo,
Remember to plead between honesty and a fruity brew;
The British tongue hums “plead” like a moderate wind,
A gentle reminder: speak, and let your kindness chime.