Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children.

The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake.

Life is short and the world is at least half terrible,
and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children.

I am trying to sell them the world.
Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole,
chirps on about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right?