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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
