Some folks chase creams in jars of gold, with names too long to say,
While I just borrow humble clay that lounged outside all day.
It doesn’t brag, it doesn’t sparkle, it isn’t dressed to win—
It simply sits there in the dirt… then politely fixes skin.
The mud has seen a thousand storms and never learned to boast.
It wasn’t made in Switzerland or blessed by Gwyneth Paltrow’s ghost.
You goop it on, you look unwell… Your lake friends might agree.
But somehow, quite conveniently, your skin says, “Now I’m free!”
