Who Is The True Quack?

When meter and scope,
Have not much to show,
And it is only in hope,
That one tries to sow,
Vim, back into the ill,
Using many a colored pill,
Possibility is the premise,
And you must seek promise.

Potions and gooey globs,
Made from roots and herbs;
Measured electric throbs,
A lengthy list of curbs;
The prick of a blunt pin,
The prod of a spiky seed;
Invoking the energy within,
Tickles from a fabled reed;
The pull of a tiny magnet,
The touch of a chosen stone,
The power of a bespoke amulet,
To each a newly trusted unknown.

When beyond, it is all black,
Every star does brilliantly glow;
Who, then, is the true quack?
Which is the cure, which the placebo?