Irony Poem by night oblivion

If someone’s knocking on your door,
then “who”, you shall adore.
If someone’s stepped on your floor,
then “hi”, you shall give a tour.
But why to someone’s kneeling on thy hall,
then “shoo” is art thou call?

Tip taps, sounds of rain,
yet to heard all the people in pain.
Knock knock, echoed the door,
but never has it opened at all.
Swished! The winds~ so cold and cruel,
Thy blessed warm, covered in wool.

Near the mountains, along the sea-
amidst the buzzing bees.
Beneath the shaking rocks-
“Behold the dying mobs! ”
They’re in pain! They’re in vain!
How could you not see their wobbling tame?