I have a massive fever and I wrote a poem about it! Here it is:

Oh turgid crap that encases me,
soft and fleeting as the wind,
you have seen better days

Take, for instance,
My hot-blooded urge
The will of the rapid flame
       Or cooking on "keep warm"
       Rotating, restless and gripped
by Biomagnetics
What if there is no tomorrow? It whines,
Pumping out a bloody trail

And what if I haven't seen better days?
Should I have obeyed the call of the wind
Instead of purchasing all this turgid crap?

Thank you, thank you. I wrote this after waking up (sick) from dreaming I'd contracted ebola zaire. The "turgid crap" is an analogy for my body, or anyone's body in light of our flesh somehow being "precious".