A (poorly written, ill-rhyming) Ode to Antacids

I don't like anything that is mixed berry flavored,
But you're all my warehouse club had.
And I knew I would need the 600 count package,
So home you came, I didn't think you'd be so bad.

I keep a pack of you in the kitchen,
And another in the bedroom.
A small roll of you rides along in my purse,
It's usually gone when I need it - I should replace it soon.

I pop you like candy in the evenings,
Three, sometimes four in a jag.
Chalky, gross, mixed berry flavored candy.
You kind of make me gag.

Sometimes, I fight the urge to chew you.
I sit in pain as a fire in my chest and throat boom.
But then I give in and climb the stairs, wondering
"Why aren't there any in the basement/family room?"

I chew you, grimace.
Swallow, grimace.
And find relief.
Thank you.

Even my son knows you by name.
"Mom need Tums?" - or after explaining what you are and do
"Sorry babies hurt you, Mommy."
Oh, if he only knew.