To
excretion
And
sweat
I’ve
no choice
But
to deflect,
All
and any inquiries
Into
the matter of
health.
To
rattling cages made of rib
And
all the gelatinous masses
Vacationing
in, I must accept
Any
and all, lack of
Comfort
experienced through,
Confined
in this condition, relegated
To
such positions of internal anarchy
As
to the removal of
Such
insurgents,
A
healing process works its way,
One
I find to be, entirely cruel
When
it comes to the rehabilitation
Of
the self inside
