It could be worse, my dear, it could be worse.
The world is ending—this was always true.
But that could be a blessing, not a curse.

We’ve made a sow’s ear out of a silk purse,
The permafrost is neither, sea’s less blue.
It could be worse, my dear, it could be worse.

In tragedy, the chorus moans in verse;
Prose is available to me and you,
And that could be a blessing, not a curse.

Some roles we improvise, and some rehearse;
Let’s swell a progress, start a scene or two!
It could be worse, my dear, it could be worse:

Grudges, infants, fears, small things we nurse.
The future is a dream that will come true.
But that could be a blessing, not a curse.

Only by spending, will love reimburse—
The world is ending. But that’s nothing new.
It could be worse, my dear, it could be worse,
And this could be a blessing, not a curse.