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Cram
If my leg had gangrene and, sinisterly purple and yellow,
threatened to poison me:
I would trust you to tell me
to cut it off
And if my liver grew wild; grew teeth; grew hair;
tried to replace my body with itself
You would hold my hand and convince me
to remove it
But when my job laced hands around my throat
squeezed the breath from my lungs
You remind me of the danger
of career suicide