Going on the couch

Sometimes, we h'e a sit down with Sigmund Freud 
We hold our breath, to hold our tongue 
To stop this out pour of larva, from outburst 


We bite our lips, and grunt and growl  
And stamp the ground to swerve response 
We count to a thousand, to a thousand 


Or go for a walk, where walks are needed  
And strive to clear our heads, they weigh 
Being calm, being wise, on rational 


We count to a thousand, then backwards again 
And again, if bulls still rage on lament 
We hold our tongue, with all our might 


Such acid wield, eager on response 
If left to rain storm, on reaction 
With mouth filled full of sour-grapes 


We hold our tongue, on circumvention stands 
We hold our tongue and walk away 
To make void contrition in the theater of wars