She’s a glass doll made of plastic,
A silent symphony,
A baby butterfly
But not a caterpillar, see.
She’s the sense of satisfaction
Men don’t get from buying shoes.
She’s a pomegranate seed,
But just the part without the juice.
She’s nonfat butter ice cream.
She’s that feeling of “just woke up.”
She’s everything and nothing
Which is probably why we broke up.
The Daily Travesty 