Oh, woe is me! A pin has popp'd my life's balloon, my blood flows a crimson tide which ebbs with an oil slick aflame not unlike the sulphurous pits of hell.
My painfully mortal body is spent like a drunken sailor's wages, as blue streaks he curses at nymphomaniac prostitutes whose beauty is evident only with the influence of a fermented grain variety.
The die is cast; I've crossed the murky Styx. Don't pay the ferryman; bury me not on the lone prairie; spit not upon my grave, nor misspell my tombstone; my epitaph shall be, "long winded but pith
