"You're bawdy! Is your temple?" they cried out.
At least, that's what I heard them to have said,
And that's why all my charms I try to flout
religiously, although I'm semi-dead.
I once was bawdy. Now my temples throb
and so I find I'm slow to make response
and build a temple worthy of a bawd
when illness bars me from such hallowed haunts.
"Your body is your temple," did they cry?
Then like the Parthenon it's just a shell
of former glory, feeling fit to die
but fit for blessed bawdiness? Like hell.
The temple of my body is a shell.
I fill it with what makes me feel well.
