Mye Paine

Mye wretch't harte burneth withe the stinge of one thousande papre cuts,
for she hath goneth frome me like a rane of decayde leaves uponst the windes.
Oh foul daye, oh piteous daye.
Hell doth descendeth uponst my black existence.
How, how couldst thee pierceth my harte so
withe thye endless supplye of minte flavorde toothpicks,
stabbinge me againe and againe
'til I laye drowninge in my own bloode at thye feete?
Ah, sweete tormente, I embraceth thee as I placeth mine own fingre
in the salad shootre and writheth in paine.
Slayeth me, slayeth me now withe your weasle powerde roto tillre of despayre.
Ende my eternal sufferinge. Forsooth, I'd rathre die at thine own hands
wielding an electrifide pair of khakis withe which to strangel
the very breathe frome me, then to live withe thye angel's face
forevre beyond mye graspe. I crye, cryinge for thee,
gouginge mye eyes out with rustye, tetanus infectde papre clips
for I no longre wante to see. Prayeth for me,
that the angels will not smothre me withe molten marshmallow peeps
and playe jumpe rope with mine own intestines...and not faulte me
for mye bittre anguish, and the facte that I set ablaze the entire state of Wyominge.
Withe this then, I die, disappearinge forevre frome thou in heavye blackness.
No longre canst thou stuff my socke drawre with radioactive voodoo teletubbies,
or hange rabid wombats frome my bodye piercings and singe Barry Manilow's
greateste hits backwards in Japanese withe a chorus of leperous Italian fruite vendors.
Slowlye I passeth into the darkness beyonde. Farewell mye loste love...
Fare thee well.