Black binders beside the linac, hold photos of those most ill
A diagnosis and a treatment plan, the last hopes of a woman or man

I fix the monster when it  breaks, so dutifully with a tool
When I get the call "The linacs down", for that I went to school

Something else will oft present, when the beast is down
A delicate soul, silver nitrate marked, waiting patiently in her gown

So evident she is, and so sad to see.  All the women I love personified - compromised, humbled, made pitiful.

As for the binders I'll sometimes note, a new one added today
The mom or dad of a once young boy, with whom I used to play

Each will have their turn in the beam
In desperate hope to be redeemed

And who'll be next on the cancer roll-call?
******* it, ******* it, seems like us all