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About This Poem
The Crooked finger points
With your hands held up limply;
As if consumed by a fear;
You claim your provisions;
So few can come near
But I hear only echoes;
Designed and construed.
Like as growth from a hot house;
Not flower or food.
But this meat and potatoes;
With butter and bread
And these rhyme’s Betty Crocker;
Will it stay in your head?
This venue you’re serving’
Lacks an herb or a spice;
And until you are sorry;
You only suffice.
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