I know a hundred ways to die.
I’ve often thought that I’d try one:
Lie down beneath a motor truck
Some day when standing by one.
Or throw myself from off a bridge—
Except such things must be
So hard upon the scavengers
And men that clean the sea.
I know some poison I could drink.
I’ve often thought I’d taste it.
But mother bought it for the sink,
And drinking it would waste it.
Edna St. Vincent Millay