"You're morose," she said as if she'd found the word
Not long ago while leafing through a dictionary. "True,
And I can be dyspeptic," I replied. Her eyes grew
Slightly wider. "I've no idea what that means.". "It's
Another word for crabby. My mind is a pair of stones
Which grind the things that it encounters into
An unpleasant paste, which I've no choice but to
Consume." "Small wonder you've become so bitter."
"All's not always lost," I smiled. "Sometimes, something
Sweet appears, and skirts those awful grinding stones.
A taste of it brings joy to me, exactly as you have."