Bors SMASH!!

Though I have come to comprehend and accept the magnanimous decision of our hallowed monarch to consign my pulchritudinous and conscientious spouse, my ambrosial progeny, and myself to this island Bastille, I do considerate a more familial confinement.  The menagerie of fauna here is quite queer to minimize the verbiage.  Here dwell titanic rabbits with short ears that traverse about in leaps upon elongated hind paws, minuscule bears that consist of more proboscis than anything else, beavers inured with duckbills, and these over sized rodents I swear come from the depths of Hell itself.  The most unsettling however, is this breed of dog the indigenous inhabitants call . . . That . . . CALL . . . THAT . . . 
DINGO EAT BORS BABY!    BORS WANT TAKE ARTHUR HEAD  SMASH  PATSY COCONUTS WITH  SKULL! . . . 
Sorry!  Ever so sorry.  I become a scant  bit agitated at times, especially when I reminisce about the egregious inducements for which I was dispatched to this infernal atoll.  I really was not trying to drown Bedevere's resplendent female sibling as a witch; I simply mistook her for the Lady of the Lake, and thought she would luxuriate better in her innate habitat.  There is also significant defense for my actions that one winter when Guano Knickers Robin let that wretCHED minSTREL wail ON . . . and ON . . . and . . . AND . . .
BORS HUNGRY . . .  BORS TAKE LUTE  SMASH . . . 
Crikey . . . slipped again . . . sorry.  Well one can hardly admonish me for the ire, since there was an significant absence of admonishment when the cannibalistic activities occurred.  I even recall a smidgen, or more, of rejoicing.
Anyway, with much introspection I have matriculated to keep serene, for the most part, and I am looking forward to returning to King Arthur's service in rectitude and a calmer demeanor.  I am also anticipating reuniting with my brother who garners his wages as a sentinel at Swamp Castle.  He could always illicit a better mood from me, that would make me more reluctant to . . . smash . . .