Verily, this sicknesse doth labour long,
preventynge the lovelyest birthday song
for you, Pickles Dillhoefer, borne yon eve;
native son, thy OPS+, I grieve.
Consumption hath wracked my cold, blackened soule
as it hath wracked the Browns' marche towards the goale.
Leeches, phylacteries and charmes help not
this darke procession of putrescent rot,
and, oh, this brain in danke, diseased gaol
dyes in vain waitynge for woulde-be bail.
"Pretty pretentious way of saying 'I've got nothing.'"
Um, didn't you die in the epidemic?