Anger's an acquired taste,
like oysters, snails, or beer.
At first one doesn't like it much
one learns to love ones fear.

Some are addicts to despair
its bitter, ashen flavour
reminiscent of durian fruit
which most anosmics savour.

Heavy lies the ball of pain
deep within my gut.
Torpid are my thoughts again
so tired and dazed, but...

Suddenly, as if by magic
no relief within me quickens.
T’weren’t so sad t’would be tragic
bad mistake: counting chickens.