Vernal stirrings -- who needs them?

Where have I been all winter?  Not here, I can tell you.  This brutish, brainless city does, from time to time, jolly itself into a tepid glow.  Now, as the glaciers shrink, the breakfast-cereal-bar-eaters stretch their wintery legs from ballooning, over loud shorts.  Halibut glares from his cave.  Not for him the balmy airs and vermin-scented breezes of the spring.  Not for him the slave life of Goon and Bhik, tied down with gaudy strings.  I'd rather sniff the stale air than open a window to all that.