Gentleman. sir:   I hate to be your cancer. I hate to hurt.   Gentleman. Sir:   I suck the devastation in a sweaty shirt.         We’re on a rim.         Gentleman. ma’am:   They fight themselves disasters and they seldom win.   Gentleman, gatekeeper:   I found a little rape clog.   I found a tin inside the brain.   Inside the home, under the planks, I am alone and in disguise,   a strengthening pole and a harming gasp.         Gentleman, sir:   I hate to be your cancer.   I hate to hurt.   I’m working for your landmine.   I’m working in the Earth.   I’m on a rim.