To torment butter with sharp knives was fine

So you  have  phoned who once designed my  glove
For that  opera conjured  and  refined
For in your glee you wrote a song of love
To torment butter with   sharp knives  was fine
Amused by  friendship with  your  friendly crooks

You did not understand that skin  couls feel
Yet imitation grew  the more you looked
You threw  Arabian raisins  at  bike wheels.
With me,  your love, then you began to mate
If not ideal , then tolerable, I  agree.
And then you  liked  a nymph   to  mediate
Our child was born  by whim of God’s mercy.
So fine, mature ,yet born indecently.
Thank God, Augustine Hippo  could not see.