Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go. Oh, how could this happen? Everything was perfect.
Everything was perfect, everything was neat. The swamp is the exact opposite, but it ties up everything nicely, so why, why, why?
Oh a disgrace, that's what he is. He had a job when he left the nest, shiny, polished, and barbed with pin feathers too sharp to not be used. Overgrown is what he's called, and maybe he's lived up to the jib, because no one could've messed this up as bad as him, he's sure.
How was he going to explain this to the Boss? The soil was too soft? The rain too hard? Excuses, that's what those were. He was mortal, after all. Oh god... Forget all that, what about his mom?
(A serial killer for contract who is currently under the employ of a crime boss in Florida, though not for much longer it seems due to using the marshlands a bit too liberally without thinking of seasonal downpours. He won't die, no. That's not what he's worried about, because coming home from being caught is a fate much worse. Curiously he limits himself to grocer enthsiasts who linger in the fruit and vegetable aisles.)