The flesh the sewer from whence it filters, spite of plug.40
The graven idol (fed from blackest sewer tide
In flesh, its graver), was as fountain by wayside.
The inward idol, pride, the filthy jug’s black slush;
The prurient flesh, the source from which it had its gush.
A hundred potters’ pitchers one small stone can break;
And spill the cooling water drawn our thirst to slake.
To smash an idol, too, quite easy may appear;
Not easy to root out the flesh; too hard, I fear.
Would see the picture of the flesh, inquiring youths?