The flesh is no dungeon
Rather then a cauldron
For roasting unfatted
It simmers to boil -
the flesh, not like a garden,
But a tasked allotment,
has truck with no burden
of blandishing hurdles.
Though the flesh is no tower
(nor even verandah),
A balcony only
with jerry-built slats,
We should stand out come evening,
Full knowing it's raining.
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