She tapped at the raw edge of Greatness;
She paused where the tides ebb and flow;
She touched where Intelligence founders,
In the bone-weary Portals of Know.
She sold humankind down the river;
She told friends and kin where to go
For one little pot-bellied puppet,
For one tiny section of dough.
But the puppet is shrunken in stature,
A fate it has shared with the dough;
And her world, returning from Glamor,
Is an error-strewn mockery show.
In a garden full warty and weary,
She planted the seed sure to grow–
And now that the Bitter has flowered,
Regret is a hard-to-kill foe…
by Ray Romine Tuesday, September 23, 1952