Nigh on twenty years ago
A squalling infant threw her tantrum
Tearing at the baubles and silks one grand old lady wore
Leaving them scattered and shattered and tattered
Never to be made whole again
Because the skills that sewed such things together are not to be found anymore
There’s not enough profit in it

More recently
Another tantrum raged–
Uglier for being close to beauty–
Echoed through the hollers on high
And the older ladies there were not as well prepared
Nor yet so richly appointed, though not less good
Not less worthy of love or of support
But there’s probably still not enough profit in helping them

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