A pleasant one. Sorry...

Once more this will flow down the horty pipes of your temporal throat in a squandered attempt to resurrect the undead from their salty languid holes which were dug by your secular God of dirt and dumpsters and time—he who wanders the streets in suit and tie, needle in hand, and begs forgiveness for all that his swollen dripping yellow melting-liquid eyes have promised—dug out with forks and knives and wet dreams awoken in ecstasy and orgasm by the sordid smack and drip of feed and fester and flood congealing into one before settling peacefully into lungs as black as snow kicked out to the side of the road; once more this will flow down those pipes and once more you will fall asleep to the echoes of its depraved benzo-tinged dream.