O grave injustice of leaky body,
O unsealed bin of bile!
Can I form these parts I so detest?
This inefficient fleshliness, this mess!
And I am to make one, of these?
This recipe for bloat and spit and blood?
Am I to string these organs in a row,
paint-by-numbers, splotch my drops about?
Who handed me these tools, too crude to carve a foot
Too botched to bake a brain, who tricked me,
locked the door, and set the timer on the test?
Which metaphor will make a man, and soon!
Love this
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