Vermin?
Yes, I'm certain I was a pest,
with so little language and so much of it,
badly mangled –
the unsubtle subtleties, however, rarely lost, 
for who does not fathom ugly depths,
when faced with the abyss,
notes water strider delicately step, work tirelessly
to frustrate mischance?

Finned plunderer lurks ever beneath,
great gulping greed the calm does thresh and yet,
as if capsuled in vehicular wet,
strider skips away.
Small, she strives to live,
attempts to make slightest impression,
to magnet no undue attention,
on spare fragments of castoff nutrient, she survives
in her humble way.

They told me – you have strayed,
your relegated ghetto is far, far, far away,
you are a squanderer,
our cornucopian hoard is none of yours,
you have no intrinsic right
to a better life,
you're irresponsible, allowed your hovel
to Beelzebub be blown,
you don't know the words, our Way of Life,
the very complicated Truth of Us...

Actually... I think, I might.
I suspect it serves your purpose that I remain vermin.