I want to make you out of clay
Your hair will be curly snippets of yarn
You’ll have raisins for eyes
Did you know you have raisin-black eyes?
I want to craft your tits
As two clay hills
I want you to sit in my fridge
So on days when my hands sweat,
I can hold cool clay.
I don’t want you to have free will
Because you might end up in someone else’s fridge
Someone who always has cold hands, even in summer,
And doesn’t want to hold you.
