I could have lost some fingers
I could have lost some toes
I could have drunk a six-pack
I could have pierced my nose

I could have run away from home
Or rescued a homeless raccoon
I could have been allergic to him
So he’d have to sleep in your room

I could have run off to a moose farm
With a Jesus-nut named Ned,
Or eloped with a psychic
Who resurrects the dead

I could’ve become a mole person
Slinking through the night
I could have joined a nudist group
And streaked for clothes-free rights

I could’ve been a nomad
Bartering for grain
I could travel with the circus
The Bearded Lady as my name

I could become a fairy
At least that’s what I’d think
I’d wear a tutu and sparkly wings
And have sweet nectar to drink

I could become a backup dancer
in an off-off Broadway play
I could sell my body for profit
Who needs two kidneys anyway?

I could’ve sent my college savings
To help a rich Nigerian prince
I’m sure it would have all worked out
(He just hasn’t emailed me since.)

I could be named in a Hollywood scandal
Involving sex and drugs and fame
But I have done none of these things
Because, you see, my life is lame.

So when you look at my report card
Before you scream or curse
Remember I am your favorite daughter
And, mother, it could be worse.