You'll never call me sugar,
But maybe you'll let me be your artificial sweetener.
And sweetie, I'm not going to give you my heart,
But maybe, if you're lucky, I'll cut out a kidney
And sell it on the black market.
Don't get your hopes up though.
Spoon me into your tea until I am unable to dissolve
And incapable of melting into your arms.
Drink your Earl Grey,
Which must, by now, be the consistency of pudding,
And don't worry about talking to me Sweet and Low
Because this isn't Splenda
It's absolutely splendid.