The people who play
with polymer clay
are certain to have
an interesting day.

They pound and they roll
with fingers they toil
They slice and they dice
Get their clay spruced up nice.

Then they magically scrimmage
An incredible image
Of fracturals, or flowers
Or ladies in towers.
Of tiny green frogs,
And bug-eyed bulldogs.

They craft little pins
Of fishes with fins,
Or foster some pendants
With colorful remnants.

They stamp them with rubber
And partially cover
With powders that shimmer
To help make them glimmer.

Yes the people who play,
With polymer clay
Are certain to have
An interesting day

But even at night
When the clay's out of sight
And they're snug in their bed,
Wild dreams fill their head,
With visions of brayers,
And stacks of clay layers,
Of sharp little blades,
And of beads that they've made.

These people who play
With polymer clay
They have an addiction
That causes some friction.

They're hooked on the stuff
They can't get enough.
It's a terrible plight,
An impossible fight.

So they grin very sly,
And don't even try.