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Who Says Man's Body's Perfect? I wonder, for ‘tis said That it is art’s quintessence, Than nothing in its stead Can rival its grand stature Nor match its structure fine. Some even would expound that Already ‘tis divine. Does say it the strained athlete In time of urgent need, When orders to persistence His muscles do not heed, And, snapping under pressure, They throw him on hard rock, In bloodied, anguished writhing, Toward a state of shock? Does say it, ever aging, The man of brittle bone, Whose grip each day must loosen On senses once his own? His flesh turned shriveled leather, His eyesight in decline, His loss of former prowess Would he ideal define? Does say it cancer’s victim, A tumor on whom gnaws And replicates sans breaching The body’s ingrained laws? The organism that’s perfect Will not but try arrest, Unaided, that, which promptly All life from it shall wrest. Man’s organism is perfect. To say so will it please The man whose genome’s riddled With Parkinson’s Disease, Who, born no malice harboring, Nor ailed by own design, To loathsome retardation Ambition must resign? Ask if man’s body’s perfect The mother in childbirth From whom a stinging labor Does drain all rightful mirth, To love a living offspring Who must bear horrid pain. This process is quite perfect. By proof of sight that’s plain. Of bodily perfection Inquire, why do not you, The man whose instincts urge him To eat beyond his due, Whom days of tribal hunting By passions obsolete Compel to morf by habit Into a mound of meat. Man, as he’s born, is perfect. The model will agree. Then you will note her nose Is off by one degree. Upon her face a blemish Her texture does deface. But she shan’t mend perfection Nor “Nature’s will” disgrace. Man’s body is not perfect, But hope is not all lost. We still can wield its wonders And not incur the cost. Technologies are rising, In grandeur soar ahead, To forge in a God’s image, By fruits of divine head, A titan free from peril, Whose limits shall extend As far as, in his yearning, His fantasies portend.
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