A riddle of temporal instructions

Could Walk me towards Wilde's gaol
A man on each arm or 
Lear's pangs advise I hold the lens 
That destroys industrious ants but instead
I have allowed imbecilic strangers to call on
Disassociated maniacs,
Linked through meanness, to
Deluge the starving with the busy
Etiquette of disastrous investigation
They might fly kites overhead
To read six million concerned yawns
Yet because you feel you are owed a poem
My education can only be borrowed
Which makes the arguments born of a bullet
More compelling than Neruda could know