You leave each weekend to go to heaven,
Carelessly disregarding our own hell.
Hysterically I wait for your descent
I pick you up, tarnished, and wish you well.

The other children also do observe
That irony in your notes of remorse.
Pretending we aren't unimportant.
When we are but your stable's weary horse.

Return now, you immaculate liar.
We don't need you, angels shall warm our fire.