The Crooked finger points

Written by: Leonard Taormina

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.