I shaped a block of butter to a man,
Poured on some life soup I had in a can.
That man of butter rose slowly to its feet.
It opened its eyes and it greeted a beet.
No response by the blood red sphere,
The young butterman responded with fear:
Had it disturbed the beets sweet dreams?
My fat-formed man was bursting at seams.
He took the butterknife with strong resolution,
Plunged it in its abdominal protrusion.
An inmost cut from left side to right,
The man cut in half without much fight.
It didn’t die and it seemed stumped,
So I put it in the fridge where it gradually clumped.
I’ll wait a week for its feelings to abate,
Fuse it back together and talk till it’s late.
Give him a drum set made of small cups.
That should make him as happy as pups.