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

half terrible, and that’s a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

Every bird on the wire, every sharp-faced

storm, every hateful mouth, sings this world’s

short song. But there’s a lifetime yet to give

and I will keep from my children the half terrible.

I will show them instead how to sell it: any decent

realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.