It’s water under the bridge. Forget about it. Fluvial junk under a domestic over conveyance. It’s in the past, never look back; it distracts from the now.
You can drown from too much water under the bridge. The troll living under it—the bridge, that is—won’t save you, so don’t expect him to come to your rescue. That guy is really bitter about the villagers killing his family. He’s not going to be pulling you out of the river anytime soon.
Four inches of water and a bottle of bourbon. That’s all it takes. Drowned you’d be. Or wet and uncomfortable, looking around the riverbank for more bourbon. Trying to explain to a troll—who I think works for the Canadian passport office—how you got down there. Slipped, I did. Or, maybe I was pushed. It was dark and late at night. It’s all water under that thing up there over my head, now that I’m down here and it’s still up there. Water under my elbows.
Poached eggs on toast would be really great right about now. Maybe the troll will bring me some. Nope. Still bitter. His water ain’t going anywhere.