I prescribed myself a prone prolonged surrender. And proscribed my born role of friend and pretender. Abdicated agencys affirming splendor. And took to my bed a mind with which to render, a world in which I still felt tender. Confer upon this frail frame, a warrant for my given name, an agent I can justly blame, and a brain complacent and tame.
And the prognosis is a slow descent of steadily increasing increments of liquor to the stomach of the sick.