Bitter Brew

Whittle me down 
To a strong thin reed 
With a piercing tip 
To match my need.

Spin me out 
To a tensile wire 
To derrick the stones 
Of my problems higher.

Then simmer te slow 
In the freedom cup 
Till only an essence 
Is left to sup.

May that essence be
The black poison of me 
To give the white bellies 
The third degree:

Concocted by history 
Brewed by fate—
A bitter concentrate 
        Of hate.