So tempting are the pitfalls of the flesh.
‘Tis not mere lust that drives me to despair,
Nor wanton love nor passion to undress,
But hatred’s glance into the mirror there.
Too round, these hips, too fleshy are these thighs.
Not tall enough, nor hair the perfect hue.
There’s even lack in not-quite glimmering eyes:
Perfection’s a tough mistress to pursue.
But when the body’s plagued by sheer fatigue
The weight of mere aesthetics disappears
When joints do throb and muscles become weak
The face of vanity’s reduced to tears.
O Body, victim of my sheer neglect,
Forgive this fool’s desire to perfect.
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