They were going to be all they promised to be.
None would work more effectively, you’d see.
A donor of many years, one they knew
Would be glad of a contact— and needed it, too.
On her they would call, to see what they could do.
Each morning they stacked up the letters they’d write.
And work harder and harder with all their might.
The greatest of fundraisers they might have been,
The world would have opened its heart to them.
But they moved on to another job and faded from view.
And all they left when their task was through,
Was a mountain of work they intended to do.