Iced

You sit there, cold and bitter, tempting me
To taste your bitterness. Each rancid drop
Spreads sharp across my tongue. It's savory
And wet yet can't and won't make my thirst stop.

I won't have milk or sweetness moderate
The bitterness I love to taste each day.
I've grown accustomed to what I should hate --
Our tastes are shown to be such plastic clay.

But if I did not have this in my life
I'd lie in listless pools of laziness
And feel across my scalp a razor, strife --
And so this rancid bitterness I bless.

Without it I would have a life that's mean --
And thus I praise the washoff of a bean.