Are the pencils sharpened?

The title haunts and taunts me
With all it smugly hinted
Though, always, it was out of stock,
Sold out or being reprinted.

What was its magic formula
That filled those unseen pages?
What answers was it offering
Transcending bygone ages?

And if its boy-scout readiness
Was all it had to say,
Why should its threat of excellence
Plague me to this day?

Are the potatoes peeled?
Is the wheel invented?
Are the last wills written?
Are all my sins repented?

poem © Celia Warren 2010