Poor Pygmalion, his desire for Women always tainted
by those who exchange love for coin, those Women of the
Night, faces painted ,he did once with Intimacy seek to join.
He thought the fairer Sex a worthless Breed,not worth a
second of his Time,this hate so became his Creed,he felt
to speak to such Creatures a Crime.
His Work absorbed him, working in purest stone,
not in control of his Mind ,his Tools a life of their own,
there appeared an image of Woman Kind.
For he had created,whilst not even aware, a Statue
of the female Form, so beautiful he could only stare
and feel his hate now transform.
He toiled ever more, emotion in him grew, perfection
he now sought as suddenly he knew, it was purest
Love that he had wrought.
Fervent Pleas to Aphrodite, for he longed for the Stone,
such perfection yet cold, to become Flesh and Bone,
his Lover to hold.
Heard from above,she became soft and warm to touch,
he knew what he had missed,that he had lost so much
the moment her Lips he kissed