Flesh is fire's friend

 Oh flesh, my flesh

mortal servant of the lord

Or servant of the fire?

When I watch him on the stage

Expire

Burning

Like a candlestick

He must sit upon the wick

And burn

In flame

And torture

Famine

Oh flesh

Of all the furniture

Fire is your friend

It must burn

In the end

Beyond The nerves

And sinews which extend

What frozen wonder land

Of wasted flesh

Oh flesh is fire's friend

My love is skin deep

 Skin deep

Deep they say

My love is only skin deep

In capillaries and veins

And the skin fat

In butterflies and brains

And the shin chat that comes

From talking to your legs for too long

My love is body

Bone to bone, everybody,

Anybody

God I love a body

Who's body, yours or his or hers

Anything man, just pass the can

Love doesn't mind

It is kind or rather cruel

It is only skin deep

When you sleep, that's all

Body Politic

 I guess what you saw 

When you opened the door

Was me forgetting my name

But I had to be sure

Each time I abhor

The way of getting the game

Sheets fall from the sky

Sheets of rain

And I cry

There in the corner

There must be the coroner

Of England's body in a foreign field

And he is trying to resuscitate it

England is flat-lining

It's fitting to be fit

No it is fit in ways I can never imagine

In ways that leave spectators to gaze at 

Football and rugby stadiums

And young people who fight

With their bodies at night

While in the day they train for the army

And these bodies go overseas for months

And sometimes return in black bags

While other bodies swim in the Adriatic

Or the sail yachts and attend parties

That are quite erratic

With the King of Monte Carlo

But my body has never done that

Perhaps in my mind that is a place

I visit in my dreams

Perhaps I hold a candle for the chances

Down the stream

Or for the memories of times which

Like diamonds gleam,

Gleam in the mud and the dust

Perhaps but in all honesty

I don't know where it goes

My body is this thing

That goes along in tow

And I must keep it happy 

Like England proper must be kept moving

And in good working order

In order for it to function well

Stop the economy and it will get sick

Don't listen to the doctors

They can be dicks

Listen to your body - the democratic one I mean

England proper - the body politic

The Demos or else the mob may rebel

You've got to keep it tickety-boo

Ticking along like a nice choo-choo