What have you done to yourself, mate?
Night on the town?
Would never have guessed. Look at the mess
you've made!
Didn't think to take the gate?
No joke, mate.
And I see you've bloodied your foot, too,
a dirty great gash.
Might need stitches. Tsk. Tsk.
No good bellowing protest, son,
I can see you're sore
but far from sorry and that's a fact.
Practically smirking, actually
still pumped and piston-pizzled, all testosterone-driven
and trying it on with the girls, even now.
Hiding behind their skirts one minute,
then trying to sniff under them -
have you no shame?
Shuffling and whuffling and stirring them up,
as they swirl-flirt about you all round-eyed-randy
and ready to ovulate.
Go-orrrrrn,
into un-splendid-isolation you go,
enough damage for one day.
And don't you give me that - 'You're unfairly punishing me,' pout,
you've been a lout, you know you have.
Torn up twenty feet of barb, found the electrics, too
though that just put a spark in it,
you could have crippled yourself, yer idiot.
Heeeey, now,
caaaalm down,
come orrrrn.
Not my fault you rushed it, mate.
Went in all lovelorn
and dripping and expected them to line up.
Yes, yes, oh, I don't doubt it, for a second, mate -
they led you on.
Well, everyone likes to poke a bit of fun,
so to speak
but no means no. Get that into your noodle, son.
Never mind,
come on, now,
cheer up, old mate.
Come orrrrn.
Here's some fine Lucerne hay.
Get your tongue around that.