Cant yourself over the hedgerow

Bless me Birkens, I have been misused. In December your surface confidence and affability struck my fancy the Monday you first lit upon my doorstep, Kristan. In March the dozing Four Winds awoke and blew the snow away, and your charm was borne away with it. I never see the sun from tramping through the mucky sewers all day. My trousers reek. All the while I've been working second shift in the candy factory where they make me wear a bloody hairnet. No more. I'm putting the breaks on this chain gang of runaway packmules that's been my life. I'm shaving my head and calling myself Pupu Platter. Why not? I have nothing to live up to. O Loki, you trickster god, turn your mischevious gaze from my dimpled Irish ass, and leave me to my only bit of happiness, a pony keg of the thickest tar-like stout your bescarved mother ever poured down the church social drain. My dear, you may cant yourself over the hedgerow.