Pgymalion without Galatea/Were I A Sculptor
If I could I’d try and sculpt a man.
I’d put marble, basalt rocks in hand,
and say “I can make this work, I can!”
I’d try and make a man out of land.
Before I start I’d create a plan,
give him a name too, like Steve, or Stan.
I’d give him my full attention span.
Though at the start I would be shaking
If I could I’d make him sweet as flan,
and hotter than a summer Afghan.
He’d come out lumpy and misshapen;
he’d come out on the cusp of breaking.
He would look worse than when I began,
and my heart would be sorely aching.
His ugliness would be breathtaking,
he’d be a thing of no God’s making.
Oh, it’d surely be so painstaking,
that his beauty isn’t earthquaking,
that he’s ugly with no mistaking,
that for him there’d be no matchmaking.
On the bright side, though, he’d be like me.