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.