The old tainted flesh hanging on the shoulders of the strong, the young, the new.
The flesh hung loosely on him in great folds, a memory of the mountain he had been.
The flesh on the man's face hung limply, as if too weary to support it any longer.
He was a big gaunt man, his flesh hanging in loose folds.
His flesh hung in wattles, as if death were creeping over him.
Their flesh hung in tatters, yet they did not bleed.
The old man had been ordered a hundred lashes, and the flesh was hanging from his limbs.
His nose was torn and the flesh of one cheek hung open in a flap.
The flesh of his face hung in waffles and dewlaps.
Its flesh hung heavy off it like a pudgy schoolboy's.