Keep your wits about ye, lads and lassies, fer this wretched plague ravages the country with a cloven hoof and a sweet, yet sour cough.
May ye breath be deep and bountiful as the well springs of Thoda be in the Southeastern corners of our frail marble world.
May ye receive numerous snappy snappies of yer crush in all their naked glory, bathed in the picturesque light of the afternoon sun and striking the alluring siren pose that lures sailors to their doom.
May yer enemies have their mouths forced open with a funnel so that they may be force-fed Abaddon's cloud of angry locusts to peck and gnaw at the alveoli in their lungs like so many fields of wheat and corn till they can scream no more.