There’s hope for turning real by and bynThough I hate the thought of becoming blindnSo go my eyes, so goes my sight (Just so long as you hold me tight)nI am only made of grassnSomeday I’ll grow up with the weathernAnd I’m going to disappear forevernStill in the garden, strawberries and teanThere’s dew on my ears, and I am only slightly dirtynI’ve got a sawdust heart, pretty ribbons and silken thread nIt was your hands that made me real that night upon your bedn