I’m sure there is a moment, sometime, where
The patient, left with trauma/without hair.
Thinks longingly about the blight, excised
Eventually forgetting it was there.
The ones unblighted, scooped and cauterized,
Aware the pain a bit of it belies,
Then sat them on the far end of the bed
And asked the tumor to apologize.
But tumors have no agency, instead
They feed on sugar, apathy, and dread
Then, strangled, starved, of all of the above,
Attack the organs in your gut and head.
I Won’t remember colors of your gloves,
Or how hard hands were stomped, and faces shoved
I will remember Nuremberg to death,
And remind him when I meet the one above.
The coward in a kingdom filled with cunts
Campaigning on who gets to fuck the dunce.