When you have shaped a statue out of clay
And then the gods have granted her a voice
Your problem then is that she has a choice
For she decides what words she wants to say.
A statue or a doll is cold and still
A frozen beauty who can't move or change
The gods are kind, they let her rearrange
Her features in whatever way she will.
You loved the woman-toy that you have made
But didn't really pause to think things through
For once the gods had granted you your prayer
And she's alive, with all the world to share
How could you think that you would make the grade?
You love her, sure, but why should she love you?
