Gotta' love EAP. He has a wonderful grasp for turning the benignly picturesque into something horribly depressing and woeful. The man wrote from his heart, so I can't blame him.
Since we are in that time of year, I offer a little of the macabre for you. I don't just mean "macabre" in this sense either:
There's No Party Here
by, J. Bongat -- 1993
Colored bodies of every hue,
Greenish lips on flesh cold blue.
Rancid hair and yellow phlegm,
Crimson eyes in the heads of them,
That walk with the dead.
It carries upon the wind of Death,
Choking out Life's own breath.
Running the edge of the Reaper's blade.
Cut in harvest as you fade,
Deep into the Netherworld.
Hopping a-foot hot brimstone,
This is it--your new home.
Single child in a family copius,
While upon your mother's lips-Death-you kiss,
To find no lips are there.
Because of insult--a slap of face,
You left home, your earthly place.
Thinking this best--an end it seemed,
But in continuance and pain you scream,
Everlasting and lonely.
Welcome to the Netherworld which you choose,
Nothing in monotony, truth not ruse.
In pain and flame this sad reality,
You chose this and now you see,
There's no party here.
Sit a while, drink with the worms.
Inside your inards something squirms.
Talk to yourself, see how you sound,
Deep and lonely, within the ground.
Ha ha! Welcome to death!
There's no party here!